The Stuart Vampire

by Andrea Zuvich

  His body contorted violently and he threw his head back, his spine bending backwards with a gruesome crunch. He opened his mouth in agony and his canine teeth grew and sharpened into little points, which jutted out of his mouth. His face also contorted, the brow furrowed into the likeness of a strange, horrible creature, neither wolf, nor man, nor lion. His nails, formerly bitten down, thickened into razor-sharp talons, his hands warped, becoming grotesquely elongated. Throughout this whole ordeal, Griselda had stood clapping her hands and twirling about in giddy anticipation of her new lover.

  “You will be alarmed at first, but this is one of your two selves. Your human form is, and will always be, perfect, enticing, but this form is your true self, wherein your power lies. Look upon yourself, look with the green-yellow eyes of our Master.” She held a small looking-glass up to him and he took it from her and tentatively looked at his reflection. He saw the horrible beast and the fangs and, repulsed, he dropped the glass — which shattered into a million pieces upon the stone floor.

  “You did this to me? Why?” he howled, rearing towards her.

  “You are of an ancient and noble lineage. You will be my mate throughout eternity and hand in hand we shall see the world. But first, we feast!” She reached behind one of the other coffins and picked up the body of a small boy.

  Henry looked upon her actions warily.

  “I drugged him so that he would not make any noise,” she stated. With that, she turned into the she-devil again and savagely bit into the boy’s throat.

  “No!” Henry screamed in horror. “You are a monster! I want none of this!” He ran towards the vault door, but she suddenly appeared before him, her arms stretched out to her sides, blocking the way out.

  “You have no choice!” she screeched, the child’s blood dribbling down her cold chin.

  “I will not be like you!” he cried. “If I was to die, you ought to have let me do so.”

  “Either you feed or you will fade into dust and become a ghost, doomed to walk this world in loneliness and pain for all eternity. There will be no peace for you, ever.”

  There was a gnawing pain in his stomach and he clutched at his abdomen and doubled over upon the cold floor. His hands spread out into the dust on the crypt’s floor.

  “My family!” he pleaded, thinking of his siblings. “What have you done to my family?”

  “I’ve done nothing to them, but you can never return. You are dead to them now, dead and buried. I drained you almost completely. Smallpox killed you, they believe, and they buried you. Tonight you had a glorious midnight funeral, surrounded by those who loved you. Then you were placed here inside this vault. You should worship me, Henry, for ‘twas I who raised you up from death into everlasting life with my blood. Aye, blood, which you sucked from my breast as you lay dying.”

  Chapter 6:

  A Dark New World

  The nightmarish imagery her words conjured up made him remember. She had drained him of his blood and, hovering above him, had made a small incision upon her breast — where her heart was– and this wound bled crimson slime, the evil of her heart trickled down her firm, cold breast, off her hardened nipple into Henry’s mouth, which she had prised open with her hand. That ancient contagion, like acid, burned his tongue and his throat as it spread throughout his body. The pain was excruciating and his face had contorted to show the agony she had wrought upon him. And this expression had hardened upon his face as his body died, but his soul, swimming through the otherworldly planes between the living world and hell, could hear the world he had left behind.

  He remembered the physician’s startled cries, the panic as Somerset House buzzed with the news of his death. Charles, and later James, had wept when they saw him upon the bed; his body overcome with the pallor of death. The blood and pus from many of the smallpox pustules had burst and obscured the wounds the animal-woman had left upon his throat. He remembered all the things his brother had said, things to which he had been unable to reply. He remembered hearing Charles’s voice cry out, “Farewell, dear brother!”

  The horror of his situation was all too real. He had died a most unnatural death, only to be reborn as a foul creature of the night. Everything about the circumstance that he found himself in was abhorrent to him. He wished he could have died, that none of this had transpired.

  The obscene images were thrust into his mind’s eye, and he was aghast at all that had occurred. Where once royal family members had flocked to Westminster Abbey for sanctuary, he felt no such security. The house of God was now a palace of horrors, of repugnant visions and abomination. The Devil’s talons were more deeply entrenched in the living world than he ever knew. It didn’t make sense to Henry, whose head was now swimming in doubt and self-loathing at the monster that he had become.

  “It was I, Griselda, who taught Lucrezia Borgia how to entice men; it was I who made Veronica Franco the most celebrated courtesan of her day. It was I who recommended the blood bath to Erzabet Bathory during my travels to the Kingdom of Hungary. But does anyone remember me? No, and that is the curse of the vampire. To forever be lost in the shadows of time, helping and sometimes killing those who are deemed suitable to remain in the annals of history. Vampires must remain creatures of myth, for were humans to believe in our existence, we could all perish.”

  He shivered now, knowing she was a wicked creature. “I despise you.”

  “You say such awful things because you have not felt the power yet,” she replied, believing this to be true. “But one day, you will love me, you will worship me, and then, together we can have everything.” Griselda was both disappointed and irritated by Henry’s reaction. She had given him immortality and he could not bear the sight of her feeding upon an insignificant child. He stared at her, aghast, his eyes nearly bulging from his sockets, his mouth open in shock. What a weakling he had turned out to be, she thought. The child was only a common child, his blood easily spilt, like that of animals. Griselda was unable to understand why Henry, of a bloodline almost as ancient and noble as her own, could not see things as she did. Perhaps she should have changed James instead of this one, she thought, for at least James had the capacity for cruelty. She could see that this was going to prove to be far more difficult than she had anticipated. He sat snivelling like a pathetic creature, and she could feel her anger rise. He was, however, newly begotten and she tried to make herself remember this fact.

  Two hours before dawn, she led him out of Westminster Abbey, and both were back in their human form. There was a hackney carriage waiting by the River Thames and they entered it quickly, so as to avoid his being recognised. It was a short drive until they reached a secluded and upmarket street by St. James’s Park, so very close to one of his family’s homes, St. James’s Palace. They stopped in front of a large terraced house, from which a well-dressed butler emerged. He had shoulder-length ginger hair, a bulbous nose, twinkling little dark eyes, and a wide gap between his large yellow teeth.

  He was a human.

  “Good morrow, Countess,” he said, escorting her from the carriage. He had a warm Somerset accent.

  “Ah, Travers, it’s good to be back,” she said. “Is everything prepared?”

  “Yes, my lady, the bath and the guest rooms are ready.”

  “Good,” she said, before turning to the carriage. “Come, Henry,” she commanded. Henry slowly emerged, and looked up at the edifice, which was made of brick. The building had some four floors and was built in the English Palladian style made popular by Inigo Jones during his father’s and grandfather’s reigns. Griselda now stood on the top of the stone stairs, looking at him with those strange eyes of hers, which were the same as his own.

  He entered the house, his eyes drawn to the dark wooden staircase, which was lighted by several brass sconces, each holding a single candle. She led him into a room in which there was a bathtub, not too dissimilar from the one she once had in the Palazzo di Cuorenero. There was a large pot of water heating over the fire in the hearth and Griseld
a picked it up as if it weighed no more than a flower, and poured it into the tub. Although it was obviously hot, she held it with her bare hands and did not feel any pain or discomfort. Vampire skin was incapable of feeling pain. She prepared the bath and added a variety of oils and the whole room was soon filled with perfume.

  “Take your clothes off and get in,” she commanded.

  Henry furrowed his brows. “You can’t expect me to-“

  “Do as you’re told!” she shrieked. He complied and took off his own funeral clothing. It was all so surreal, and yet he still felt the very human emotion of embarrassment. He did not enjoy her ogling his nakedness and so he plopped into the tub quickly.

  “Really you do not need to do this,” he said, trying to make her leave.

  “Oh, but I want to.” She used some Castile soap on him, touching, massaging his body with both of her covetous hands.

  “There are some basic rules with which you will need to comply,” she purred, her fingers sliding across his wet chest.

  “Such as?” he scoffed through gritted teeth.

  “Anything you consume other than blood will be rejected by your body,” she stated, remembering her former love of stuffed figs and how she had been violently ill following her own transformation after she had consumed them.

  “Spare yourself the pain — avoid human food.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’ll grow to detest the smell of their food in time.”

  Henry had always been fond of roasted meats, especially chicken, and he immediately told himself that she was lying; that he could never have so violent a reaction as she seemed to relate. She left him to soak for a while, and this gave him the opportunity to ponder over his predicament. He had to think of something, he knew, as he was getting very hungry. At length, he emerged from the water, feeling her burning stare upon his naked flesh again. Once he had dried his long hair and donned the elegant clothing Griselda had procured for him — a suit of black velvet and a wide-brimmed black hat with red feathers — he began to set his own plans in motion.

  “I desire a walk in the park, and I would be grateful if you could lend me some money,” Henry said, hating the same old feeling of having to live off the charity of others as he once did during those years under Cromwell. He had thought those days were over once his brother had reclaimed the throne. Henry was then an important, well-paid prince, often responsible for many important royal business affairs. Now this.

  “Lucky for you, I am of a charitable disposition at the moment.” She moved slowly and smoothly, like a snake, and went over to the wall where a blue velvet coffer lay upon an ornately carved trunk. Its brass hinges creaked as she lifted the lid and Henry could see that there were several leather pouches therein. She picked up one of these and threw it at Henry. It was a goodly amount, he could tell from the weight. “No loan.”

  “I thank you, Madam.”

  “Will you not dine with me, Henry? I have two young beggars waiting in the cellar. Nice and fresh and ready.” She rubbed her hands in anticipation of her forthcoming meal.

  The idea alone was repulsive to Henry, who adamantly shook his head. “No, I cannot do that.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “Suit yourself, but you haven’t fed since you were turned, and you wish to go out there… alone. You will make a spectacle of yourself.”

  “I have never made a spectacle of myself, and I never shall.”

  “You’ll see. You are very dangerous now, but you do not believe me. Yes, go on. You’ll see, oh, how you’ll see.”

  Unnerved by the confident warning Griselda had given him, Henry left quickly. He walked briskly from their lodgings by St. James’s Park and through the streets until he came upon an eating-house by the banks of the River Thames. His plan was simple. He would dine well and make his way to St. James’s Palace, where he would sleep in his own bed again and forget about the whole mad episode. The things he had experienced and seen were not to be accepted, for they jarred too much with his views about the world. Everything would be well in the morning, he assured himself. His fingers skimmed over the pouch of coins at his side. He felt slightly reticent about going in, but he was in need of sustenance. So, with a deep breath, he took off his wide-brimmed hat and his now green-yellow eyes skimmed the busy room and found an empty corner table.

  He soon ordered a goodly amount of food, much to the proprietor’s delight. There was a delicious smell in the air, and he sat quietly, his eyes falling on the face of one man and on to the next. Some were already in their cups, ruddy-faced with their life-long appreciation for ale. With some discomfort, he felt his teeth elongate and he looked down at his hands and saw his nails sharpen and thicken, just as they had done when he had been in the crypt in Westminster Abbey. He shivered and endeavoured to think on other things. His eyes focused upon the flicker of the candle on the table in front of him, and this seemed to help.

  Within the half-hour, his feast was served onto the little round wooden table before him — a half of a roasted chicken, stewed carp, oxtail, and a brace of roasted pigeons. Despite a few moments’ hesitation, he tore into a pigeon breast, rapidly devoured the lot, and then licked his plates clean. A smile crept across his face for he felt well — there was no sign that his body would reject the food. After all, it was hearty, plain and good English fare. He ignored the fact that all of it had had a slightly foul taste, this he simply attributed to his not having eaten real food in days.

  What a liar that beautiful fiend Griselda was!

  He knew now he could go back to Whitehall Palace, and tell everyone that they had been mistaken, he was still alive! But then his eyesight began to go hazy, and the pigeon and chicken carcasses upon the rectangular trencher before him stared back at him; the bones seemed to mock him as their white-grey structures still retained some bits of meat. Suddenly, he felt thoroughly disgusted and in acute pain.

  The whole of his oesophagus and stomach felt as though he had swallowed daggers. There was no way he could keep the contents of his stomach within him — with a mighty heaving retch, he stood up and vomited all that he had consumed. With ever-increasing repulsion, he looked at the mingled contents now in a messy puddle upon the table below him. The chewed-up food was not covered with the normal transparent-yellow film of stomach fluids, but blood.

  Many of his fellow patrons had started to point and comment as they turned to see what was going on. One of these, a moderately well-dressed man of some twenty-two years had the misfortune of stabbing his index finger to look at Henry’s spectacle. No sooner than he had done this, then Henry, smelling the iron-rich goodness of the man’s blood, turned into his vampire form. The hirsute wolf-like face with its almost tiger-toothed canines grew immediately. It was a blood-curdling sight, and even some of the drunkards staggered to their feet in alarm. Henry overturned the table, sending the contents flying, his bloody vomit splattering an old man in the process. The Stuart vampire flew across the room and tore off the young man’s head and drank as the heart continued pumping out blood. There were horrible screams as this happened and the man’s head tumbled to the wooden floor– these screams faded into the background for him as he fed, digging his talons into the young man’s shoulders. And there was more, much more. The room whirred around him in a flash as he satiated his dark appetite. He slurped the last drops and tossed the human carcass to the floor.

  Henry stretched his arms out as the power flooded through him. He felt stronger immediately; his belly’s gnawing pain had ended. It was a satisfaction that he had only ever experienced following one of his brother’s great banquets. It was even better than sexual release. He felt full almost to the point of gluttony, and went into a sort of drowsy daze, lost in the luscious sensations the blood made him feel.

  As instantly as he had morphed into the monster, he reverted to his perfectly handsome human form again, though the blood continued to dribble down his chin. And with his human form also came the horrible realisation of what he had done. He looked around
him, and there were some twenty-odd butchered men and two women. With his razor-sharp talon-fingers he had sliced off heads, arms and legs. One poor soul had been cut in half. He had massacred every last person in the eating-house. And it had all happened so quickly!

  He, who in life had tried always to save lives, now had destroyed them. The full extent of his monstrous new nature dawned upon him, and he cried with big, heavy sobs. Only when the tears dripped off his nose did he realise they were not normal tears, but tears of blood, and this appalled him even more.

  Griselda’s voice reverberated throughout the eating-house, interrupting his sobbing. “You must always give in to the darkness. There is no escaping your purpose, for I have given you the greatest of gifts.” She spread her arms wide, as if preaching to a congregation of believers. She had followed him thither, knowing the proximity to so many humans would be all the impetus needed to bring out the Darkness in him.

  Henry shook his head. “The greatest of gifts?” he repeated, his eyes looking at the blood on his hands. “Nay, Madame, this is no gift. This is torture! You are forcing me to butcher innocent people. I took away their lives and they had done me no wrong. You have made me a murderer.” He fell to his knees again; taking in the grisly image of the seeping bodies of those he had butchered so violently minutes before.

  Griselda rolled her eyes at this, for she perceived it to be a weakness. “Ha! Most of them were only peasants. There are so many of them; what does it matter if they die?”

  “It matters to me!” he barked, anger rising up amidst his pain. “I have to live with my conscience! I have to live with the knowledge that in order to survive now I must kill.”

  “Yes, and that’s a fact that you best get used to.” She curled her lip in disgust. “Your proclivity towards sentiment is a decidedly unattractive quality. You would be wise to ignore your foolish conscience — it will only be a hindrance from now on.”

  “I care not!” Henry barked in return. “I didn’t want this, and I will never want it!”