Blood

by K. J. Wignall

  “It’s your choice.” He thought about it, wondering what was best for both of them. And even if she unknowingly had some part to play in whatever was now happening to him, the best thing he could do for Eloise was to leave her right there. “Actually, you should stay, but I have to go. Please forgive me—I didn’t mean for you to see any of this and I shouldn’t have let you. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded sadly, even though she looked as if she hadn’t understood a word of what he’d said. He picked up her bag and handed it to her, and without saying anything, he walked away.

  “Will?” He turned. “I’m safe, aren’t I? That thing, it won’t come back.”

  “No, it won’t. You’re safer away from me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I can’t tell you, not unless you come with me.”

  She stared back at him, and he knew they didn’t have very long, that he had to get away from there quickly. But he didn’t rush her because he knew that she’d seen things she should never have witnessed, and that right now, she was making the biggest decision she would ever make.

  10

  Don’t think I have not wished for a companion through the unending ages of my life. I have so much wanted someone to talk to, someone who would not outgrow me, and whom I would not outlive. And I have tried, but even those humble efforts met with tragedy.

  I did not know it as I scrabbled through the earth from my rotten coffin, as I tumbled into the chambers that have been my refuge ever since, as I came to understand the physical changes that had accompanied my strange preservation, but the year was 1349.

  Thirteen forty-nine in the year of Our Lord, though Our Lord was not much in evidence at that time. It was a century of famine and war and revolt, and above all, it was a century of pestilence. The famine had been and gone whilst I was still in the grave, as had my father in the winter of 1263, and my half-brother early in 1320.

  I knew none of this. I knew none of the history that had elapsed. I knew nothing of what I now was. If I had risen again in a time of happiness, a time of prosperity, I suspect I might well have perished before learning how I could survive alongside those who still lived by day, but I arose in the autumn of 1349 and ventured out into my beloved city in the nights after the plague had arrived at its gates.

  I have often wondered since if it was the very stench of the Black Death that had roused me in the first place. When I first saw the panic that filled the city, the corpses that fell almost too quickly to be buried, the stench, and the squalor, I couldn’t help but connect it all with the burning witches, as if their execution had set the world upside down.

  Little did I realize that life had returned to normal after that awful night, that good seasons and bad had come and gone in the years since. The world had not ended in October 1256—it just appeared that way to me.

  Given how inexperienced I was in procuring the blood I needed, given that I only understood that need little by little, the plague became my friend, bringing mayhem and fear to the city in order that I might walk through it unnoticed.

  In the midst of all that horror, my torn and bloodless victims aroused no great suspicion—as far as the people were concerned, the Devil was at work across the entire land—and anyway, the plague left its corpses even more disfigured than I left mine. All were buried together, most without ceremony.

  Did I fear the plague myself? No, I did not, even before I knew that it would leave no mark upon me, for what did I have to fear from death? Yet I could smell the plague, not in the air, but in its victims, and I chose my own prey only among the healthy.

  I didn’t understand why. Only now do I know that what I require from the living is life itself, and that there is little to gain from a life that is already on the wane. I understand now, but back then I was driven by instinct alone, and my confusion was as great as that which reigned across the whole of Europe.

  The plague receded the following year, but worse was to come in the decades that followed. The pestilence returned in 1361, in ’69, in ’78, and ’90, and each of these successive plagues struck the young most of all, children and adolescents, sometimes singling out boys, sometimes the wealthy.

  Can you understand what it was like to be trapped forever in the body of a sixteen-year-old boy, uncorrupted by time, and over those fifty years to watch the youth of the land struck down, one generation after the other? It was after witnessing all of that death that I tried to make myself a companion.

  In the winter of 1394 I befriended a servant girl. She appeared about my own age, though naturally not so tall, and I would find her most evenings in the stables, settling the horses, taking good care of them. Her name was Kate and she was my physical opposite, sandy-haired and wide-faced, her cheeks ruddy and healthy.

  She knew from the start that I was high born, but she also knew her own place and never asked me more than my name. At that time, I still wore my teeth long, but she did not comment upon my appearance nor the fact that I walked only at night. Yet for all that, there was nothing simple or even retiring about her.

  Each evening, I would ask her about the latest happenings in the city and she would tell me the news, of building works and trade, of crime, deaths and disputes, of the current Earl and his family—the great-great-grandson of my brother, fifth in a line of unwitting usurpers.

  She had the power to amuse, too, and when she realized that I did not object to the mockery of my social equals, she became even more relaxed in my company. It may not sound a great deal, but I had known no greater friend and would wait countless lifetimes for another such.

  Kate was an orphan, her parents and four brothers struck down by the last swipe of the plague’s cruel hand in 1390. So when she told me that there were rumors the pestilence had once again returned to London—rumors that eventually proved unfounded— I became concerned that she would meet the same unhappy fate as her family.

  It seemed so very simple. I knew where I had been bitten and reasoned that if I bit Kate on the arm, if I drew blood, but not enough to kill her, then she, too, would become like me. She would be saved from the pestilence forever, and I would no longer be alone.

  It makes it no easier to bear that Kate offered me her arm willingly, that she trusted me so much or valued her future so little that she was happy to risk her life on my promises.

  I wonder if she had fallen in love with me or if I had unwittingly mesmerized her, a process I still did not fully understand at that time. I’m pained to think that her decision might have been unduly influenced, that she might not have fully understood what I was asking of her.

  I drew almost no blood at all from the wound and she did not complain or cry out, but within an hour, she had fallen into a sleeping sickness. Still, I hoped, and carried her body away with me, and when the life was gone from her, I buried her in the earth in my own chambers.

  I waited sixteen years, and when I finally dug in that spot and found her bones, the rags of her simple dress, the pitiful remnants of hair, I was overcome with remorse. I burrowed like a wild animal into the soil that filled my own stone casket and I prayed that if there was a God above, He would allow me to rot also.

  And as I lay there, sleep finally overcame me. I thought my wish was being granted, that death had finally come to claim me. The year was 1410 and I did not emerge again until twenty-five years later, in the long reign of Henry VI.

  Had Kate not died at my hands, she would most probably have been dead by then anyway, but her loss was still a fresh wound in my mind, no less than if she had died only the night before. And it was not merely the loss of Kate that filled me with despair, but the realization that I could never have a companion, that there would never be someone with whom I could share the endless years of my existence.

  Time would pass and I would forget and be tempted again by human company, and it took me hundreds of years to understand that there was nothing to gain from it, only loss for me, and danger for those who came too close.

  11


  Eloise insisted on carrying her own bags. The large one was a backpack, but even though she lumbered awkwardly under its weight, she refused his assistance.

  They entered through the South Gate, but Will put on his dark glasses and stayed on the busiest of the roads, partly for her sense of safety, partly to avoid passing the Whole Earth again.

  When she saw that he was wearing the sunglasses, she said mockingly, “Nice! You do know it’s the middle of the night. You look like a complete …”

  “I have an eye condition. The light troubles me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, temporarily forgetting her anger and fear. As if reminding herself that she had nothing to apologize for, she asked tetchily, “Where are we going anyway? To your squat, I suppose?”

  “There is no squat. We’re going to church.”

  She stopped suddenly, so fast that he’d walked a couple of paces before realizing she was no longer with him. He turned and walked back to her and she said with a hint of alarm in her voice, “You’re not a born-again Christian, are you?”

  He didn’t know what a born-again Christian was, but he said, “No, I don’t think so. I was born a Christian, but I …” He tried to think of words that would sum up his fall from grace, but instead, he became puzzled by the tone of her question and asked, “Is a born-again Christian more disturbing to you than what we’ve just seen?”

  Eloise clearly thought it was a rhetorical question because she said, “Point taken,” and started walking again. “It’s not like I’m anti-Christian or anything. I even go at Christmas. It’s just the born-again variety—I find them a bit freaky.”

  He couldn’t help but smile to himself. He still didn’t have the first notion of what a born-again Christian was and didn’t want to ask, but he doubted that it could be any more freakish than him. And in turn, that thought dragged the smile from his face because it reminded him that he had disturbing things to tell her. Nor was he entirely certain of how he could make this end well.

  The floodlit spire was looming ahead of them in the night sky, and as he took a left turn, Eloise realized precisely where they were heading and asked as casually as she could manage, “When you say we’re going to church, do you mean we’re going to the cathedral?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I still think of it as a church, but you’re right, it’s always been a cathedral.”

  “But it’ll be closed,” she protested, still apparently struggling to see that none of the rules of her world applied any more. She had just seen him fight off a demon, using powers that few humans could call upon, yet she still thought a closed sign would be a barrier to him.

  “I have a key.”

  “Of course you do,” she replied sarcastically. “Because what, you do a lot of voluntary work in your spare time?”

  He smiled at her, an attempt at reassurance as he said, “Because it’s where I live.”

  Eloise didn’t respond, but carried on walking with him, which was promising in itself. He led her around the far side of the church to the small side door. He couldn’t see anyone about, but he walked casually and pulled her into the porch at the last possible second.

  He opened the door, ushered her inside, then locked it behind them and removed his glasses. As with the previous night, the church was filled with the filtered light from the windows, but there was nothing unusual in the air now, reassuring him that for the time being, nothing awaited him there.

  Eloise stopped and looked around and was briefly so overcome with the church’s late-night beauty that she forgot where she was and what had happened, saying simply, “Wow, this is so beautiful. They should open it to the public at this time of night.”

  Will looked around, as if with her eyes, seeing the faint shafts of light with the dust dancing within them, the illusion of mist clinging to the pillars, and the distant vaulted roof of the nave. He’d seen it so many times, he’d almost lost the ability to appreciate its beauty.

  Yet it was beautiful, and for him it was also home and certainty, a steady rock of the past to which he was forever fastened. No matter what the changes, this church remained, tying him and the city and the country beyond to the long history they all shared.

  “This way.”

  He took her to the top of the steps that led down to the crypt, but she hesitated there and said, “Where are we going?”

  “To the crypt. There’s something I have to show you.”

  Still she hesitated, and as she looked down the steps, she said, “I don’t know about that. It’s pretty dark down there.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Please, wait here.” He’d forgotten that her eyes were no more accustomed to the dark than his ever were to the light. He went away and came back with a large candle and matches, but waited until he’d started down the steps before lighting it.

  She followed uncertainly and said, “I’d still be happier if we could turn on a light.”

  “We will, but we’ll need the candle, too.”

  Before opening the gate into the crypt, he found the switch and turned on the lights, which were bright enough that he had to struggle not to put his glasses back on. He resisted though, and blew out the candle before opening the gate.

  Eloise was more relaxed with the light on, but she still had the air about her of someone who wanted to get on with whatever it was they were doing and leave immediately afterwards. He would have to be careful how he revealed the truths he had to tell her.

  He beckoned her on through the crypt and then said, “Here we are. You should take off your backpack.”

  She looked around, as if trying to work out what they had come to see, but took off the backpack as he’d suggested and propped it against one of the tombs.

  “That tomb,” he said, “the one that you’ve rested your bag against.”

  She turned. “What of it?”

  “It belongs to the third Earl of Mercia, born in 1218, died in 1263. He inherited the Earldom from his grandfather, his own father having died in a riding accident.”

  “That’s … fascinating.”

  “The tomb on your right belongs to the fourth Earl, Edward, born in 1246 to the third Earl’s second wife. He lived a long life and died in 1320.”

  “Seventy-four,” said Eloise, playing along. “I suppose that wasn’t bad for those days.”

  “Seventy-three, but you’re correct, it was a good span in such a trying age, and in truth, he should never have been the Earl at all. His half-brother, William, was born in March 1240, but fell sick in 1256, at the age of sixteen. They believed him dead, and so he never inherited the Earldom that was rightly his. But his sickness did not kill him.”

  All at once, Eloise understood the nature of his story, but also looked totally disbelieving. She shook her head as she said, “Now, just hold on a minute. I’ll be the first to admit that something very weird happened down by the river, weird like stuff you see on television, and I’d really like an explanation. But if you’re trying to tell me that you’re descended from this William who was sick but didn’t die, well, just forget about it because I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m not telling you I’m descended from him.”

  She breathed out heavily and said, “That’s a relief.”

  “I’m telling you I am him.”

  She laughed uncontrollably, a laugh that had no humor in it, and said a little too loudly, “Just! Stop! I’ve had the strangest evening of my life and I just need you to tell me the truth.”

  “But I am telling you the truth. It happened in 1256.” He tried to think of how he might convince her and thought suddenly of the Whole Earth and said, “How do you think I knew that café used to be a tavern? And the burning of the witches was the night I fell sick. And how would I know so much about my father and brother?”

  “I know a lot about Hitler and Stalin, but it doesn’t mean I’m related to them.” She reached down and picked up her bag. “I’m leaving, and if you try to stop me, I’ll scream. I banged my head earlier, I must
have concussion, and you …” She suddenly looked suspicious and said, “Did you put anything in that tea?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You put something in the tea! That’s why you didn’t drink it—what did you put in it?”

  Eloise was already backing away from him as he said, “I didn’t put anything in your tea.” She heaved her backpack up on to her shoulder and slipped her arm through the strap. “Wait. I’ll give you two pieces of proof, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, then fine, you can go.”

  “I can go if I want to anyway,” she said defiantly.

  “Of course, but two things first.” He gestured with his hand and she reluctantly took the backpack from her shoulder again, resting it this time against the tomb of the fifth Earl, a half-nephew he’d never known. “I told you I live here, that I’ve lived here for nearly eight hundred years. How about if I show you where?”

  Without giving her time to answer, Will knelt down and reached between the two tombs. In the dark recesses against the back wall he slipped his fingers into the small gaps and pulled the slab up. Then, once it was standing clear of the hole, he lifted it out and placed it upright on the floor of the crypt.

  The slab was several centimeters thick, and he could see what was in her mind. She was thinking about the ease with which he’d lifted it, and wondering perhaps if it was even real stone. He ignored that question for now and pointed at the hole that he’d just exposed between the tombs of his father and brother.

  Eloise stepped forwards cautiously. He could tell that she was nervous of getting between him and the hole, no doubt worrying that he would push her into it. He stepped back accordingly and she peered down into the dark without ever getting too close to the edge.

  “That could be a priest-hole or anything,” she said, though he was certain she could see the top of the steps, and that she therefore knew it was a more ambitious construction.