by P. N. Elrod
She looked at me, perplexed and gaping for an instant, then suddenly exploded into laughter.
CHAPTER TEN
Nora fairly rocked with mirth. While glad to provide her so much amusement, I was also annoyed at not understanding the reason behind it. “Nora. . . .”
With an effort she managed to restore her poise again, but each time she glanced at me, she seemed ready to burst out again. “I’m sorry So much has happened tonight I must be giddy.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said dryly. “Just tell me where Nosferatu is and what it has to do with things.”
“It is a what, not a where, and it’s the name we are called in some parts of the world.”
I scowled, pronouncing the unfamiliar syllables in my mind. “Can’t say I like it much, then. Sounds like a badly done sneeze.”
More sudden mirth. This time I was able to join in to some extent. When the latest fit passed, she said, “There are others you just might know: upier, murony, strigon, vrykolakas, blutsäuger—”
“Wait—I heard that one from some Hessian soldiers . . . don’t like it much, either—especially the way they spoke it.”
“There’s more. I’ve studied. The name you might know rendered in English is ‘vampire.’ ”
I mouthed the word experimentally. It was just as strange as the others she’d named. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Oliver Goldsmith mentioned it in his Citizen of the World. Have you read of it?”
“I fear not.”
“Well, it was more than a decade and a half ago. I’m as eager to add to my knowledge of this condition as you are and have assembled a nice little collection of all the books I’ve found with allusions to and reports about vampires. I’ll let you browse through it if you like.”
“Indeed I would.”
“However, what you will read and what we are have ever been two different things. Many of the accounts of vampires are mixed in with hauntings, grave robbing, devil worship, demonic possession and some goings-on so ghastly or nonsensical it makes you wonder if people have any wits at all. I’m sure we’re linked to it because our drinking blood disgusts and frightens them so much. That’s why I have to be so careful about keeping my needs a secret. In the past I’d have been burned for it or had my head cut off and my heart torn out. It could still happen in certain places.”
“That’s horrible. Who would do such a thing?”
“Any number of otherwise upright God-fearing people. We’re different from them, we drink blood to live, therefore we must be evil. I’ve often thought of writing my own account of who and what we really are, setting things down correctly for good and all, but for the deep roots of the superstitions and the fact that I’ve so little real information. The man who changed me was not forthcoming with his knowledge—”
Either, I added wryly to myself.
“—and I have no wish for him to know of my return.”
“He thinks you’re dead?”
“I certainly pray so. I’ve not seen or heard of him for many years. It would be a good thing for the world if he were dead, but considering how the change toughens us, I would not expect it. It grieves me, for it means he’s probably killing others, but there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”
“Perhaps the two of us together might do something about him.”
She pursed her lips and glanced away. “That is an undertaking I should have to think over carefully. He’s dangerous, Jonathan, very, very dangerous.”
“So am I. So are we both.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start looking for him, though I suppose I could learn how. Let me think on it awhile. There’s so much more for you to learn first, anyway”
“Such as?”
She stood, as smooth and as supple as a cat, to stretch as much as her corseting would allow. I stayed where I was, watching appreciatively.
There was a portrait of Oliver’s late father over the mantel; Nora went for a closer look, then gestured at it. “Do you recall the painting of me in the antique costume?”
“The one in your bedroom? The one that makes it obvious the artist was in love with you?”
My reward was a smile. “That one, yes. What you need to know is . . . is that was not a costume, but real clothing. My clothing.”
Now was I smiling. “What are you saying?”
“The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Just as you see me here, so was I alive a hundred years ago to pose for it.”
I shook my head. Was she joking? But her manner was entirely serious.
“It’s a lot to take in, I know, but I’ve not gone mad. This is a hard truth, the hardest I shall ever impart to you. Please trust that I hardly believed it for myself when I learned of it, so I’ll not take it amiss if you don’t believe it, either.”
“You’re telling me you’re over one hundred years old?”
“Yes. Our condition makes it possible. I’ve not aged since my death years and years ago.”
“And . . . when was that?”
She tucked in her lower lip. “No, I’ll tell you later. You’re still trying to accept it. Best if you think it over first. You may take as much time as you like. In a decade or two your friends will finally convince you.”
Her plain-spoken bearing alone was starting to convince me. “This is no jest?”
“No.”
“We do not age?”
“I think it has to do with how the vanishings heal us. It keeps us young.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Our very existence should be impossible, Jonathan, yet here we are.”
Sitting in one spot, staring at nothing, and no doubt looking like a stunned sheep occupied me for a goodly period. On top of everything else, this particular revelation was just too much to take in, but the certitude that she spoke the truth began to trickle into my overworked brain.
She went on. “We do not age, we do not sicken—I don’t know if we can even die.”
“But all things die.”
“Then perhaps we will, eventually; that knowledge is presently beyond my ken. In the meantime, please don’t burden yourself thinking on it too much. I told you this because you need to know it; it’s not meant to distress you.”
“How could it distress me?”
“You’ll discover that soon enough.”
“Tell me now,” I said, straightening myself to fix her with a direct look.
She turned away, placing her hands on the mantel. “The awful fact is we outlive our loves. That was another reason why I wanted you to forget me. Had you remained in England, we might have lived on together. The years might have passed, with me staying as I am, and you growing older and older. . . then dying. I’ve been through it before. At times it’s almost driven me mad.
“When you got that letter from your father, I hated the thought of losing you, but it seemed better to let you go on with your life. Then would you always be alive in my memory, young and vital as I’d known you best. It was a hard parting for me, but easier than watching the years eating at you. Because of this unnatural lengthening of life and youth, I’ve had to learn to live one night at a time, to enjoy and cherish whatever time God grants me to be with anyone I love; otherwise I should have truly gone mad years ago from all the losses.”
Simple words, simply said, and the appalling possibilities began to yawn before me. That I, too, would live on, that those I loved would age and die while I remained young and strong. . . .
She looked back and saw the anguish creeping over my face. Coming to sit by me again, she took my hands in her own. “This is the heartbreaking burden we carry that outweighs all the advantages we possess.”
“But can-can we not exchange our blood with others? Make them like us?”
“Yes, it need not be done in a carnal manner. I’ve tried. But ex
cept for you and myself, it’s never worked.”
“Then we must discover what has made us different from them. We must.”
“But—”
“Look, Oliver’s taken it upon himself to study all he can of my condition. He might be able to help.”
She appeared to be dubious over that idea, but made no immediate objection.
I listened to the tick of the clock as silence settled between us. Would time have a different meaning now that I knew it had no effect on me? Yes. Decidedly yes. Knowing I had so much of it and those I loved had so little, time with them was now more precious than my soul’s rest.
How old was Nora? Was she truly more than one hundred? Possibly. Probably. Sometimes she’d say things, odd things. . . . I’d never paid them much mind before. There was a bad habit that wanted correcting. She spoke of the plague, but there hadn’t been anything like that in London since the Great Fire. Her portrait, the clothes she’d worn, even the artist’s manner of painting, those should have given me ample evidence. Perhaps she’d worked her influence on me yet again, keeping me from becoming too curious at the time. Well, I was immune from her influencing, so that was over and done. The temptation to press her for more information was there, but perhaps not wise to attempt just now She was right that I was still taking it in. When she was ready—or rather when she judged me ready—she would tell me more of herself.
“You do understand that we are not fertile?” she asked.
I stirred, dragging my thoughts over to this new subject. “I came to think as much when I did not expel seed the first time I bedded a lady after my change.”
“Does it trouble you?”
“In honesty I can’t say I’ve really missed it—in regards to my achievement of satisfaction, that is; what I take pleasure from now is so much superior than what I experienced before my change that I might be troubled by a return to my previous state.”
“A fortunate blessing, that.”
“Most fortunate. Though I may no longer procreate, the desire to do so is apparently unimpaired. Quite to the contrary, since the enjoyment is so increased, the desire to have the enjoyment is also . . . increased. Or so I have found it.” God, but with that thought invading my mind—and particularly—my body, I abruptly wanted her all over again. Tempting, but dangerous. She’d have to leave soon, far too soon for what I wanted to do. Kissing each of her hands would have to do for now, and a poor substitute it was to be sure.
She favored me with an affectionate smile, for she could certainly read the thoughts that had just flickered over my face. “Yes, I know about the desire. We are at least allowed fleshly pleasures, if not the usual outcome of them, though this exchanging of blood we do is our own way—our one way of propagating.”
“But for its success to also be such a rare occurrence would seem to make it a pointless pursuit—except in terms of expressing love or giving and gaining pleasure.”
“Are you going to ask me why it is so?”
I gave her a wry glance. “Not unless you have an answer.”
“Sadly, I do not.”
“Then I shall not bother to try”
Soft laughter from her. She seemed easy in her manner. Now would be the time to introduce a difficult subject of my own.
“Nora, are you sure you don’t mind the other women I’ve known?”
“If I did, then I should be a great hypocrite.”
“There were other women before I left England, as well.”
“I was ever well aware of them, my dear. Though discreet with me, you and Oliver made quite a name for yourselves around Covent Garden back then. The gossips had a fine time discussing your adventures with the ladies there.”
Her tone was light, so I pushed ahead. “You need to know about one lady in particular, though.”
“Do I?”
“It has to do with why I was carrying the pistol.”
“She has a jealous husband? There are other, less forceful ways of dealing with such problems.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
I then told her about the family Christmas gathering.
And about Clarinda.
And Aunt Fonteyn’s death.
And Ridley and Arthur’s attack.
And finally, about Richard.
All in all, she took it rather well.
* * *
“Cousin Jon’th’n!”
For such a little boy, Richard had quite a bellow. My attention was immediately swept to the top of the stairs where Mrs. Howard firmly held him, else he’d have launched himself down their length to give greeting. As one footman closed the entry doors of Fonteyn House behind me, I threw my discarded cloak to another, then shot forward and up to the landing.
“Hallo, laddie! Hallo, Mrs. Howard,” I said, grabbing him away from her and raising him overhead. He squealed and giggled fit to burst, kicking his legs. “I’ve missed you. How have you been?”
“Very well, thank you. Will we go back to Cousin Ol’ver’s now?”
I glanced at Mrs. Howard, who appeared interested to know as well. “Not this evening, I fear.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
Nora’s arrival had seriously diverted me from necessary business, and would likely delay things again tonight when I talked to Elizabeth and Oliver. I felt badly for the trouble I’d put them to, for they’d vacated the house and waited all this time for nothing since I’d not accomplished all my errands. But faced with a similar circumstance I doubt anyone else could have chosen differently. Nora had returned at long last; no matter that she’d come at an inconvenient time so long as she had come.
I’d been reluctant to part with her this morning, and unwilling to let her go home unescorted, but she’d insisted, saying she above all people in the city was safest from its dangers. In that I knew her to be wholly correct, but it was still a wrench to say good-bye and let her walk away. Perhaps this was a test of my promise not to infringe upon her freedom.
If so, then I failed miserably, for tired as I was, I took to the air and spied on her progress.
It was brisk, for she had ever enjoyed a good walk in the past. She was stopped not once, but several times by men. Obviously an unescorted woman was easy game for such predators as roamed about during the darkest hours of the night. But each time she encountered one of these miserable brutes, she spoke fearlessly to him. He would then step out of her way, allowing her to continue on without so much as a backward glance for him. Obviously she was adept at influencing them, else she’d have come to grief long ago.
I did nearly go solid again when three drunken villains spied her and lurched across the street to cut her off. She’d never be able to influence that many at once, or so I assumed, and prepared myself to dive to her rescue and explain things later. But by the time they got to her, she was, quite literally, no longer in sight.
From my high vantage I tried to find her again, but my vision was limited in this form. I’d only taken my eyes from her for an instant when I’d seen the trio first notice of her. By the time I looked back, she was gone. This confused them as much as it did me, until I understood that she must have vanished to avoid them.
Well and good for you, Nora, I thought, headily relieved I did not have to play the hero, and feeling foolish that I’d dared even this much. The lady could take care of herself and had done so for better than a century without any help from me. I went home.
Just before retiring to the cellar for the day, I’d left a note in the consulting room addressed to Jericho instructing him not to come by in the evening, that I’d be over directly upon my awakening. A second note for Elizabeth and Oliver promised them I had news, but it was still not safe to return. Someone apparently found and delivered my missives, for Oliver’s home was again a silent place when consciousness returned to me at sunset. I quickly d
ressed and had a thorough look ’round the street for unsavory loiterers. None were to be seen, but whether that was good or ill remained to be discovered. A short walk convinced me I was not being followed, and taking a quick turn in between some buildings where I would not be observed, I vanished and floated high. The wind was fresh and in the right direction; I rode it like an eagle to Fonteyn House.
“You like it there at Oliver’s?” I asked my son.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about this place?”
“It’s all right, but you weren’t here.”
I hugged him tight, dangerously close to choking on a lump in my throat. “Well, thank you very much. Tell me what you did today.”
“We went rabbit hunting, but didn’t catch any, and then I played steeplechase.”
“You want to play it again?”
“Yes, please!”
“All right, time to mount up.” After a number of complicated moves, involving turning him upside down and sideways—much to his delight—I finally got him on my back. He clamped his arms hard around my neck, and I took solid hold of his legs, then we were off.
Fonteyn House, being much larger than Oliver’s, afforded us a longer, more interesting course to follow. At his whim we galloped through the lengthy halls, chased a few of the more nimble maids and some of the younger footmen, and otherwise won our combination race and foxhunt. We ended up in the nursery. Mrs. Howard’s supervision of that area was as competent as ever, for the room was in good order, warm and—remarkably for this house—cheerful. Several candles were alight; certainly they were the most helpful in chasing off the shadows. In the middle of the floor lay the square of carpet Richard had insisted on bringing along. Some toys were scattered over it; I noted with a glad heart the painted wooden horse among them.
Richard was anxious to show me something, else we’d have had a second circuit of the house. As soon as I’d put him down, he pushed the toys out of the way and told me several times to watch him. I put on an attentive face and obeyed.
Crouching on all fours at one edge of the carpet, he tucked his head down and rolled forward, heels over head, making a complete turn. He looked at me expectantly. I applauded and told him he was very clever, and if he would be so kind as to give a second demonstration that I might admire his performance once more. He immediately obliged.
