Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  * * *

  Mr. Barrett lay like a stone at the foot of the stairs, his body as beyond movement as his mind was beyond thought.

  His head was at an unnatural angle in regard to his neck; one of his arms was also bent in an abnormal manner under him. Some distant and restive portion of his brain was aware of these and other, lesser injuries, but unable to do more than simply recognize their existence.

  His enemies were gone. Two of them emerged from somewhere, surveyed the wreckage, congratulated the perpetrator, then all three left boldly by the front door, slamming it shut with a heavy boom.

  The house around him turned deadly quiet.

  A lifetime crawled by before his eyelids briefly fluttered. He got a vague glimpse of black-stained wood steps stretching upward into cold darkness. Try as he might, he could not open his eyes again. It seemed an important thing to do, though he could not recall why.

  After another lifetime the fingers of his unbroken arm shivered once. He’d not consciously initiated the faint movement, but felt its occurrence.

  When he attempted to repeat it, a white hot spike of lightning shot through his neck, forcing an unwelcome wakening upon his battered flesh. He tried to retreat to the kind sanctuary of unconsciousness, but the pain followed, tenacious as a shadow, not permitting any such mercy. He’d have whimpered a protest had there been air in his lungs. His fingers twitched again instead.

  With them he felt the cold, hard surface of the floor he sprawled over and slowly came to understand his circumstance.

  He was in desperate trouble.

  And being quite alone now, he could expect no help. That terrified him, the aloneness.

  But he had family, friends, even a stranger on the road would be moved to lend aid. None was present, though, or likely to come.

  Internal protests against this unfairness rose, fell and died like a wave, but not the self-reproach. That whipped at him with a sting like sleet, unrelenting.

  The aloneness worsened every ache and agony. It drained away what little strength remained in him. Even silently praying seemed too great a labor to dare.

  But not weeping. That he could not control. The hurts of his body demanded tears, and they flowed over his face, burning like acid.

  Then he heard his own drawn-out moan of despair and thought what an altogether wretched fellow he’d become. He was less a mass of pain from the injuries than a mass of self-pity from the misery of his heart, certainly not the sort of son his father could take pride in and not the sort of father his own son could admire.

  And unless he sorted himself out, he wouldn’t see either of them or anyone else ever again.

  * * *

  I came fully and unhappily alert. The half-dreams, half-nightmares fled, leaving nothing behind except an earnest need to overcome the hopelessness they’d engendered. If the people I loved were not here, then by God I’d just have to go to them.

  Somehow.

  Any movement was a torment, especially movement associated with my head and neck. There was something appallingly wrong in that area, and I feared making it worse. By comparison, my broken arm and bruises were nothing. That damned Summerhill had thrown me around like a sack of grain. When I got my hands on him. . . .

  Anger helped. I drew it to me, held it fast, fed on the strength of it until it filled me, became my strength. There was an astonishing amount of it. . . for them.

  Arthur Tyne. Ruthless cutthroat. Not for long. He’d wish himself dead before I finished with him.

  Clarinda. Unrepentant murderess. Instigator of all that had happened. Monsterous mother of my innocent son. I’d bring her back and take poor Edmond’s place as her jailer and rejoice at the privilege.

  The anger flared to fury, warming me, quickening bone, muscle and nerve.

  And for a very brief moment, it displaced the devastating agony. I seized the chance while it lasted.

  Inside, I felt a shuddering swoop, as though falling again. Something harsh blasted through my vitals like a frost-charged wind. It scoured me from end to end. The sharp edges of the world swiftly twisted, suddenly faded. I’d have cried out, but suddenly had no voice for my fear and pain.

  Then it was over.

  I was sightless, weightless, formless.

  Without a solid body to cling to, to torture, the pain lifted and floated away, even as I floated above the floor.

  I was free.

  And so dreadfully tired. The effort to let go of the physical world had cost me and would surely cost more when I came back, but for now I reveled in the blessed liberty of this discarnate form. Whatever bones had been broken, whatever flesh had been bruised and torn, it didn’t matter. All would be whole again when it was time to return.

  Sweet it was, and great was my desire to stay like this, but I had things to do or at least to attempt. Giving the alarm about Clarinda’s escape was the most important—but only after I’d fed. Even in this state every portion of my being cried out for the nourishment of fresh blood and plenty of it. I’d have to find the stables.

  Tentatively I made myself stretch forth.

  Using the stairs as a landmark, I pushed away from them in the general direction of the front door. Soon I bumped against the opposite wall and felt for openings with whatever it was that now served as hands. I could have tried materializing just enough to allow some vision, but was uncertain of my ability to maintain the shifting balance needed to hold to that partial condition. Instinct told me not to take that chance, lest I grow abruptly solid and be too feeble to vanish again. Bad luck for me if I did and found the door locked.

  An opening, long and thin, presented itself to my questing senses—the slender crack between the door and the threshold. I dived for it, pouring through like a river mist. It seemed to take forever.

  Outside.

  I felt the familiar gentle tug of the wind and rode it, letting it carry me along the front of the house. Keeping the building’s fixed contours on my left, I turned one corner, then another, trying to remember what I’d seen of the place when I’d initially approached it. One wing, two? The track of carriage wheels in the gravel drive had been to the left, but how far? Easy as this form of travel was, I’d have to give it up before getting lost.

  I found a clear space and tried a partial reformation, but alas, my instinct had been right. Once begun, the process continued unstoppable until I stood fully solid again.

  Standing, but that changed quickly and with no warning; I dropped to my hands and knees, weak as a babe. Normally I hardly noticed the cold; now its talons gouged deep and held fast. I was hatless and with no cloak, having lost both in the house. The wind wasn’t high, but enough to urge me to movement again.

  Luck was with me; I’d come fully around to the back of the house and was not far from the drive. Its gravel path broadened until it covered most of the yard, but some places were thin, allowing muddy patches churned up by wheels and hooves to show through. The tracks could have come from whatever conveyance they’d used. My guess was—since the doors to an empty carriage house gaped wide—they’d taken Edmond’s for their escape.

  Where was he?

  No one was in sight; I saw only the various outbuildings and yard clutter one would expect to find for such a household. Summerhill said the body was hidden in some way and that the death might look like an accident. Perhaps in the barn or the stables . . . but I had no time to look. With the return to solidity came the unimpaired resumption of physical need.

  My corner teeth were well out and ready. I was ravenous.

  Driven by the hunger, I got to my feet and reeled toward the stables.

  I could hear and smell the horses, then I was at the nearest door and found a half dozen in their stalls. A few were curious, heads turned, ears twitched; others dozed on their feet. I went to the closest, a bay gelding with a drowsy eye. He hardly reacted when I slipped into hi
s stall, and barely noticed when I knelt and cut into the vein of his near leg.

  The stuff fair streamed into my mouth. I gulped and guzzled, swilling it down like a drunkard with his day’s first bottle of gin. Its glad warmth, its taste, its strength flooded through my hollow form, easing the last aches, healing the lingering bruises. The chill air retreated before this pulsing onslaught of hot, red life.

  I drank deeply, vanished to heal, went solid, and drank again until filled to the brim.

  Then I had to lean on the horse, fold my arms over his back and bury my head in them. The heavy beat of his heart coming up through his solid frame was a comfort to my battered senses and soul. After all the abuse, I needed to touch something that bore no ill will toward me, something to remind me that not all the world was evil. The big animal snuffled once and shoved his nose into the hay manger, supremely indifferent to my little concerns. I liked him for that.

  It could not and did not last long, but I needed only a moment or two.

  Encroaching upon my respite was the need for haste. Some intuition within told me I had to get moving. Clarinda had a plot to acquire the money she wanted, and I had to stop her before she could carry it out, whatever it might be.

  Even as I reluctantly straightened, I felt the fresh blood had revived more than just my body. Plans for what to do popped into my head, demanding attention. I’d have to find Rolly—heavens, I’d have to find the servants here, if any were left. Surely not all had been bribed into betrayal. . . .

  Dear God, I’d have to find Edmond. What had they done to him?

  The anger that braced me up, anger for Clarinda and the others, flared to life once again. It burned bright and hot, closer than my own skin. In time, I’d hunt down and deal with the lot of them, this I promised myself.

  I’d start with a search of the house and gather allies and information.

  Those cries I’d heard must have been from two of the maids. Locked up somewhere, and no doubt terrified. There had to be others as well, but before looking for them I’d have to clean myself, having not been particularly tidy in my feeding this time. Appearance would have to take precedence over all else for the moment. The drying smears of blood around my mouth would alarm the servants far more than their imprisonment.

  I quit the stables and went straight to the low rectangular structure in the yard that marked the well. The shape of the thing was disturbingly like a grave, being two yards long and over a yard wide. Its brick sides rose about a foot past the ground, the opening neatly covered by six-inch-thick oak timbers. A square cut into their middle was covered by a stout plank lid fitted with a lifting knob and simple latch lock. Fixed above was a sturdy winch and rope mechanism and the cranking handle, polished smooth by frequent use.

  The lid had been left pushed up and open, with the bucket already at the bottom, which was odd, not to mention dangerous, but that would save me from having to do the work. I put a hand to the crank and gave it a turn. It moved but a little way, then mysteriously stopped. The crank was free of obstructions; perhaps the rope or bucket had gotten tangled on something. I caught the rope and tugged. It gave but grudgingly. I pulled hard, and it came up a few inches then sank again when the weight at the other end became too much. Far below I heard a soft splash . . . and a voice . . . a faint, faint voice?

  Someone’s bound to sniff him out after the spring thaw. We’d put you in the same spot, but that would look just a little too suspicious. Once is an accident, but twice. . . .

  Unbidden, Summerhill’s words ripped through my brain; gooseflesh erupted over my body. Oh, my God, what had those beasts done?

  Bending dangerously over the edge of the opening I bawled Edmond’s name into the blackness. I could see nothing inside. The natural light from the sky was blocked by my own form and hindered by the depth of the shaft. I thought I heard a reply, but it could have been my own echoes. Hope and horror seized me. I stood and stared wildly about the yard and toward the house. Help might be there, but I couldn’t take the time to go looking for it. Could I do something myself? Possibly. But—and I shrank from the thought—could I even bring myself to try?

  The inky square of the opening looked like a gaping mouth, seeming to eat all the ambient light. My acquired fear of little dark places came roaring up in my mind like a storm, paralyzing me with its thunderous force. Waking in a buried coffin seemed but a triviality compared to descent into this hellhole. Here was a place where darkness was conceived, born, lived, and thrived, devouring everything that came near it. Though fully aware that little could ever really hurt me, imagination was the great enemy here, striking hard at my weakness. The reproachful awareness of my own vast abilities made the weakness even worse. I was a hopeless coward, dooming my poor cousin to a hideous death because I was too white-livered to—

  Enough, Johnny-boy. Stop whining and just get on with it.

  I allowed myself one uncurbed sob of pure shuddering terror, then brutally pushed it away. It rolled into a ball of ice somewhere between my throat and belly and held in place, trembling, but out of the way.

  My mind was clear. Now, what to do?

  The winch mechanism presented an obvious solution. Quickly I created slack by letting out the rope to the end of its length, praying this would work. Making myself go nearly transparent, I floated up over the short wall, and drifted inside the black mouth.

  The wind ceased. My sight, ever limited in this form, perceived nothing but darkness unless I looked up. The square opening above became uncomfortably small. Every foot I went down was worse than the last, but I forced myself on. If Edmond was here and alive, his need far outweighed my childish dreads.

  I moved blindly. My ghostly hands could just sense the impression of the bricks lining the walls and the rope in front of me. Then I was aware of the water immediately below. I reached toward it, trying to find him. Heart in my mouth, I had the sudden hope that he wasn’t here at all, that I’d made a hasty conclusion based on an error, that I could leave this awful place and. . . .

  An object. Large. Bobbing heavily in the water.

  And, unmistakably now, someone’s faint moan.

  I caught at the rope without thinking. My hand passed through it. Damnation. There was no way around it; I’d have to go in, too, to get to him. Making myself more solid, I sank ever lower. First my feet touched the water, then did it creep up my legs and waist like grim death. Free flowing streams were a problem for me, but this tamer stuff was still perversely malignant. With cold. With excruciating, mind-numbing, body-killing cold.

  Completely solid, my weight bore me right into it—and briefly under. Black on black, freezing, smothering, it closed over me, shutting out everything. Disoriented, I lashed out wildly to find the surface, cracking a hand against a slimed wall. It hurt, but the pain jarred me out of the impending hysteria. I forced myself to hold still until natural buoyancy made me sure of my direction. A push, then my head broke free of the water. I spat and blew the stuff from my nose and mouth, sucking in cold, dank air I did not need, but instinct drove here, not intellect. Indeed, I was hard-pressed to maintain a solid form under these conditions and had to fight the impulse to vanish and escape.

  Kicking to keep afloat, I cast frantically about for the rope, blessed link to the world above. My hands slapped instead against sodden material. My fingers closed on I know not what.

  “Edmond?”

  No reply.

  If I could only see. I felt around, then unexpectedly touched flesh. It was his hand, and it was holding hard to the only other thing floating in this pit, the wooden bucket. There was no warmth to him, but that meant little in a place like this. Tracing up his arm, I found his face. It was above water, but only just. With the splashing and distorting echoes I couldn’t discern anything as subtle as his heartbeat or breathing. The moan I’d heard was proof enough of lingering life, though.

  Trying not to disturb his gri
p on the bucket, I found its handle, then the chain on the handle, then the rope tied to the chain. The slack was around me, but drifting and dangerous if it should twist about us in the wrong way.

  I drew rope through my grasp like a fat thread through a needle until I came to the knots that tied it to the bucket’s chain. Fumbling badly from the cold and fright, I got my folding penknife from its usual pocket, clutching it hard lest I drop it. Carefully, with rapidly deadening fingers, I opened it, made a loop in the rope and began sawing desperately away with the blade. The soaked fibers were thick, tough, and I was uncertain about the sharpness of my tool. But just as frustration set in and I began to think my teeth would do a better job, the thing finally parted.

  Cramming the open knife back into a pocket, I crowded close to Edmond. Another loop, larger, this time threading the rope under his arms and around his back. Not easy, he kept drifting away, and all the time I was trying to keep both our heads above water. Though in no danger for lack of air, I’d be damned before I let that blackness close over again.

  I made knots centered over his chest, talking to him, babbling waterlogged assurances that everything would be all right and not to worry and God knows what other nonsense. It was more for my benefit than his. He made no sound or response; I still couldn’t see a damned thing and rapidly losing my sense of touch.

  One last knot. Time and past time to leave. With a singular lack of control I disappeared completely and shot up from the well like a ball hurtling from a pistol barrel. The little protective roof was in my way, and I sieved right through before regaining command of myself. In too much a hurry to be vexed, I touched upon the earth and went solid again.

  Water running from my clothes, I put both hands on the well crank and began turning. Easy at first as it took up all the slack, it halted as Edmond’s weight became part of the load. I prayed the thing would support him and put my back into the work. Round and round, the wood creaking, the rope coiling about the dowel and my heart in my mouth, I pulled him slowly up, trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong.