I was going over a Greek translation at the time and was feeling a sense of unease. Nausea rose against the back of my throat. I had come to learn that the undead sometimes posed as scholars to write false documents to mislead and misdirect hunters. I found I had some feeling for detecting this, and I sensed it strongly in this document, a boastful, fraudulent account of the purported powers of the Greek vampire, known as the Vrykolakas.
The deceptive author described a breed of revenant that was not subject to the same limitations as the rest of the undead. I marveled at the lies as I read of communities where vampires lived out in the open, sunning themselves in exotic flower- draped grottoes and drinking pomegranate juice, living among their prey like brothers. They were capable, this clever deceiver would have it, of both casting a reflection and a shadow.
My physical revulsion from the blood of its author caused my stomach to flutter precariously, but there was something in the words, some boast, even a lurid triumph, which made me push past discomfort and forge on in the hope of learning something of value.
Upon the arrival of the young cleric, however, I pushed my task aside and struggled to compose myself. Even here, where they knew what I was, I remained guarded, retreating into a reflexive secretiveness. It had always been so; I was used to hiding my…oddities. After all, one had to have a care when one had a secret like mine—or one might find oneself situated in the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum.
“Mistress,” he muttered. Middle-aged, tonsured, rather undignified in his brown robe and shuffling boots. “This arrived for you this morning.”
I saw at once by the handwriting on the address that it was from Sebastian Dulwich, and my heart leapt with happiness. This man, my closest, dearest friend, had stood at my side and fought with me during my initiation into the world of undead.
Friendship, and home. I held the letter eagerly but waited until the last of the monk’s hollow footsteps faded to silence to break the seal and unfold the heavy paper. When I did, something fell onto the table.
I examined it curiously. I saw it was a packet, folded and sealed with a wax impression I did not recognize. There was no direction or address, and though I assumed this was also meant for me, I set it aside for the moment and addressed the expansive, florid script that was Sebastian’s hand.
Dearest Emma, I read:
London is dreadfully dull, what with balls and whatnot demanding all of my time. I would not attend, as you well know, but for the delicious opportunities to watch the debauches of my peers firsthand. It is so droll to have to wade through the papers to find one’s daily dose of gossip, and so I go and find what amusements I can as a spectator of bad behavior.
I am presently engaged in a very interesting intrigue with a groom from the mews whom I like to dress up in gentleman’s clothing and present as my cousin from Yorkshire. The accent is dead-on, and the fellow is a crack at impersonating the gentry. It has been a fine diversion, but not enough that I do not miss you sorely. At times, dear Emma, I am positively furious with you for refusing my invitation to join me in Town this season.
I am being a bore, but you must be used to that by now. So, then, how is Denmark? Have you met any ghosts? Any demented princes or waifish chits looking a bit damp? No doubt you are in your glory, up to your neck with books, an endeavor which confounds my brain, though I admit, I did enjoy the recommendation you gave me. Lord Byron is as dry a wit as myself and Don Juan a scoundrel I can adore.
Speaking of the great lover, have you had word from our Mr. Fox?
I paused, a little hitch catching in my chest, as if my heart had missed a beat. I had not, as it happened, had a single word since Valerian Fox and I had said our good-byes last spring. That was five months ago. And I had found the separation much more difficult than I would ever have anticipated.
Recovering, I read on.
No doubt you are anxious for word of our beloved Henrietta. What a dolt I am to delay the good news that she is flourishing.
My heart twisted in my chest, as if it literally leapt for joy. I adored my little cousin, for a sweeter child could not exist, and it was for precisely this reason of her pure spirit that she had been at the center of the evil events that had taken place in Avebury. It was there I had engaged in my first battle with a vampire. I had not even known they existed before that time, let alone suspected the deep ties I myself possessed to that terrible world. I had discovered my powers, the singular ability among mortal men and women to kill vampires. It was Valerian Fox who had shown me this and taught me what I had needed to know. Together, we had fought a powerful lord vampire to save Henrietta, along with the aid of a warrior priest, Father Luke. Sebastian, too, had been an indispensable help to me.
The child appears to have no ill effects. She often asks for you, and in the most admiring of terms informed me when I was out in Wiltshire for a hunt that she intends to be tall and scholarly like you. I doubt my sister-in-law was pleased, despite her love for you. You know how her mother feels about your bluestocking ways.
You are wondering about the letter enclosed. Something of a mystery, but you have not opened it yet, have you? You see how well I know you. You have patiently waded through all my drivel on my latest paramour and whatnot, for you are predictably ordered. It is part of why I love you, my dear Emma, and I am glad of it. But I confess, my delay has been to give me time to warm up my pen, for I hardly know how I am to go about explaining the pages I have enclosed.
I paused, lifting my gaze to the multi-paned window as I drew in the breath I needed to brace myself. My eyes drifted to the glossy blackness of the sea that lay beyond the neglected terraced lawns of the old palace. A sense of inevitability sealed itself in my mind as I thought idly of the terrible coldness of the water, the kind that seizes a body into paralysis. One instant plunge into a rigor not unlike death.
I lowered my head and read on.
The words contained therein are from the journal of a Miss Victoria Markam, an unfortunate young lady whose path crossed mine at a Kensington fete. The night was a bore and my new toy was not with me, so I was rather in my cups and found plain-faced Miss Markam wandering around quite foxed. Naturally this amused me, and we together went on a little adventure to pilfer a fine whiskey from the library. She began to drink like a sailing man, became loquacious, and I learned, much to my supreme lack of interest, that she was a teacher. But then she told me she was formerly employed at a prestigious girls’ school in the Lake District. She had fled in the midst of the Michaelmas term and vowed never to return. I assumed she’d committed some indiscretion and been let go, which naturally intrigued me, but as she began to speak of the events which precipitated her abrupt withdrawal from the teaching staff, I began to see her fear. She was truly terrified. I began to pay attention.
With some prompting, I elicited some rather bland accounts of shadows and noises about the place, subtle changes in the students, and a veil of conspiracy. Mere schoolgirl mischief aimed at a despised teacher, I thought, and was inclined to dismiss my flash of interest until she mentioned the deaths in the village. That will get my attention, be it proven to be nothing more dastardly than common influenza, until the day I die. This past spring left a deep mark on me. I shamelessly plied her with more of the single malt whiskey and pried at her defenses until she told me her dark secret.
The story is this: She had become aware of a group of students sneaking outdoors in the middle of the night. They had grown brazen and secretive, challenging her authority. She believed they were meeting local boys in the woods at night, and so she secretly followed them. However, she somehow lost her way, and according to Miss Markam—who by rights should have been intoxicated into oblivion by now but somehow was as calm and sober as I unfortunately am now—she came upon what she described as a cache of corpses: “human bodies cast about like discarded husks.” I quote her, for I remember it exactly. That is not the sort of utterance one is likely to forget. When she spoke of how pale they were, I could not keep my mind
from remembering the unnatural pallor of the poor victims we saw this spring. And that word: husks. It seemed so very apt. She mentioned bruising and cuts, and quite specifically told me that this damage was done about the neck, just under the ear. She believed they had been murdered, and all in the same manner.
I was pondering this shock when she delivered another. She had previously mentioned the name of the school, but I had not taken note of it. It struck me belatedly. Emma, I can tell you I felt a sick feeling come over me. This could not be coincidence. The Blackbriar School for Girls, Emma, darling—that was where she was employed, and I know you know the name well. Do you recall lamenting to me that your mother had attended this very school when she was a girl, and it had been your dearest wish to follow in your footsteps but your stepmother had forbidden it?
The mention of my mother landed in the center of my chest like the thump of a fist. I gasped out loud, my jaw jerking open. I had not been prepared for that. My beautiful tragic mother was something of an obsession with me. She had haunted me all of my life, even more so now that I had learned the truth about her. It was a terrible truth.
My hands began to tremble, making it necessary to lay Sebastian’s letter flat on the table, with my fingers splayed over it to hold it steady.
So there I was, quite overset to realize I was distressingly sober, and I am afraid I made a dreadful decision, one for which I pray you not to despise me. I said, and I quote myself precisely, “I may know of someone whose knowledge in these things may be helpful.” She grasped my hands so piteously, and I was glad I had made the offer of aid.
Soon after, we were discovered. Miss Markam, being the sister of my hostess, was quickly borne away to her bedchamber to sleep off her indisposition. I, being a man, was looked upon with disapproval and left alone with the rest of the whiskey. Not long after, a maid found me and handed me the enclosed papers, which she informed me Miss Markam had torn from her journal and sent to me, with the intention of my making good on my mention of seeing the information into your hands in the event you could be of any service.
I have neither seen nor heard from her since that night, and for all I know she is mad and I am a fool. But I cannot help thinking that this is what anyone would have said of each of us just a few months ago when we were chasing monsters about the Wiltshire downs. My mind no longer has the luxury of dismissing the insane.
So I give you these pages. I will tell you I did not read them, and not because of any sense of honor or integrity. My Lord, you know me better than that. Quite simply, I am a coward. I want no part of it. I will stay here in Town until Christmastide, when I will feast and be jolly with my new man. I will think no more of this matter, for I have delivered this intelligence into your hands and my duty is done.
I smiled softly despite my troubled mind. Sebastian had a very amusing flourish, and I could imagine if he were here to speak these words, he would do so with gesticulating hands and a moue of disdain worthy of a king. He meant none of it, of course, as the proceeding lines bore out.
But should you need me, and you have exhausted every other aid and imaginable resource, then I shall be of what little service my humble self can provide. You have but to call.
The reference to himself as humble won a dry chuckle from me, as Sebastian had intended it would. He signed the letter “With Affection” and then his loopy, bold signature.
So it was Sebastian who called me home.
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is not as much of a solitary process as one might think. Like Emma, I have my band of compatriots, each of whom played a role in the writing of this book.
I want to thank Christina Hogrebe at Jane Rotrosen Agency for her suggestions and enthusiastic representation. Big thanks go to Kate Nintzel at HarperCollins. Her insightful additions and editorial expertise have been invaluable not only to the book but also to the series as a whole.
I owe a great debt to the people who helped me during the writing of the book, all of them excellent writers in their own right. They are Krisann McFarland, Kate Klemm, Lori Kaiser, and Kay Cochran. They contributed so much to my writing that I wonder where I would be without them. More than that, they are dear friends and I count myself lucky to have them. Much love to Donna Birdsell and Sally Stotter, both of whom made significant contributions.
Very special thanks to my family: Kelly (whose key suggestions got me on the right track early on), Lindsey (who in troduced me to other vampires), and Luke (who played a lot of video games and left me alone to write). I saved the best for last: my husband did the most. He debated, discussed, and pondered with me the various points of development in this Emma Andrews idea. His input was instrumental in pounding out everything from the basic concept to the final read. For this and so many other things—thank you, Mick.
Also by Jacqueline Lepore
Coming Soon
THE CYPRIAN QUEEN
Credits
Cover design by Adam Johnson
Cover photographs: Sandford Orcas Manor, Dorset © Simon Marsden/The Marsden Archive, UK/ The Bridgeman Art Library International; woman © Dougal Waters/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DESCENT INTO DUST. Copyright © 2010 by Jacqueline Navin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lepore, Jacqueline.
Descent into dust / Jacqueline Lepore.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-187812-1
1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.E64D47 c2010
813’.6—dc22 2009029005
EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-198618-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Table of Contents
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
&n
bsp; Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
A+ Author Insights, Extras & More…
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Jacqueline Lepore
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Descent into Dust Page 31
