by Clare Daly
He could see his brother, sitting in their cell at Castle Valla, his words cutting him still – ‘Just take him, Rako.’
‘Vladimir Dermatov,’ he said.
‘I see.’ He pursed his lips, supressing a smile.
‘You know my brother?’
He leaned towards him.
‘I know all sinful men. So, what did he do to deserve your wrath?’ he whispered.
‘He fed me to the creature that made me what I am.’
‘A beautiful vampire? Is that so bad? Your body, never to age another day, your hair like spun silk, your skin as smooth as the finest marble, the golden sheen in those chestnut eyes. And a complexion to which many in society would give their right arm – though I detect a little ruddiness in your cheeks, from a recent feed perhaps?’
The vampire shook his head. ‘You mock me.’
‘I do not. On the contrary, I only remind you of the advantages of being such a thing. I counter that it is not the vampire you’ve become, but the act of betrayal that you cannot forgive.’
‘I’ve grown accustomed to it, I had no choice. He must know the pain he’s caused me.’
‘You feel foolish for letting him put you in its path.’
‘I was a naïve young man. I’m not anymore.’
‘Have you considered that your brother may have prepared for this eventuality?’
Sasha paused for a moment. He had not thought that after twenty years he may be expected.
‘I think my brother has long forgotten me.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Go. Begin the merry dance. I watch with interest.’
Sasha bowed his head in thanks. He had gotten what he needed. Why, this man was fair, even just. He understood what needed to be done.
‘Before you do though, there is one condition.’ The convivial atmosphere changed as if a darkened cloud had drifted into the clearest of skies. ‘I will need something from you in return.’
‘I see all in this fine city, through its walls and every dark crevice. There is a girl in your brother’s household, an immigrant servant, recently delivered to him. I want you to keep her safe as you orchestrate your little campaign and when it is done, you will turn her and bring her to me.’
‘Turn her?’
‘Yes…oh my, you’ve never turned anyone, have you?’ the man said disappointed at the novice to whom he had assigned a most important task. ‘Well, she will be your first. Think yourself lucky and privileged to do so.’
Sasha had never turned anyone and with good reason. He would never wish this existence on anyone. He had found a way to live with it, even found some joy in it occasionally, for one cannot survive such an immortal curse without partaking of the small joys it offers, but to turn someone else? His own transformation had not been quick. It had been long and tortuous and he decided long ago that he would never put another human through it. He’d been lucky enough to meet others of his kind that the thought had never occurred to him. He neither needed nor required a mate but now, he would have to bend his principles to have what he wanted. Refuse and he would get nothing.
‘Are you up to the task?’
Sasha nodded.
‘Believe me when I tell you, you will thank me for it. She’s a wonder.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘How fortunate it is you came along.’
‘Your wish is a small price for my vengeance,’ Sasha said. Now, if he could only convince himself that was true. The thought of killing the girl made him uncomfortable, never mind the turning. He’d never even drank from one. It hadn’t been a conscious decision but somehow every kill had become a ritual, a rehearsal for the moment he would kill Vladimir. He’d spent two decades thinking of nothing else. The man was clasping his hand in his, thrilled with their transaction.
‘Please, you must call me Gabriel.’
His name – he had spoken it. At least the one he wanted Sasha to use. A bargain had been struck and it seemed he would be spending more time in New York than he had first thought.
‘Do you travel alone, Sasha?’ He knew his name. Of course, he did.
‘I have a small group of companions, like myself.’
‘Bring them tomorrow tonight,’ he said. ‘I give you permission to hunt, once it’s in small numbers. I can’t abide greed. Now, go, plot your course, until we meet again.’
Sasha stepped up on the ledge, the rain parting for him. He would need to stay focussed on his own game in hand. He would meet this girl soon enough.
18
The master was like a ghost in his own home. Most days he moved only between his chambers and the study, the house quiet as if he’d never returned. That morning, her work done in the kitchen with Mrs Osborne, Evelyn went to the study door and knocked lightly. The master had gone out earlier with Mr. Baker but caution was always wise. Ms. Rosev had unlocked it so she could see to the dusting and so she entered, glad of another opportunity to breathe in the heady smell of incense.
It was even more delicious in the darkness, as if she were in some exotic outpost, and she smiled to herself as she pulled back the heavy curtains. Daylight streamed in, illuminating the wall of wonder as Michael had named it and rightly so. It was a marvel, with its ancient artefacts and yellowing scripts. How had Mr. Dermatov managed to come by them? She didn’t dare open the glass, they weren’t permitted to, but she could run her cloth over the spines of the books on the shelves. The Divine Pymander, The Clavicle of Solomon, Dragon Rouge, The Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy. Curious she lifted out the latter, opening it midway. The title on the page read Heptameron: or Magical Elements. Would she find mention of her power inside? Would they help her to understand how she and her mother came to have it? She began to read some of the text forgetting her place. Had she the luxury, she would have pulled up a chair and folded into it. So engrossed was she, that it was only when a shadow fell across the page, that she realised someone was standing behind her. She jumped, the book falling from her hands. The master caught it in one swift movement before it hit the rug.
‘I’m so sorry.’
She blurted out the words but they sounded empty. An apology wouldn’t be enough to erase her stupidity. These were his prized possessions. He carefully stroked the cover, examining it for any damage before placing it back carefully in its position on the shelf. He was standing so close, his breath in her ear but she didn’t dare move away.
‘Should I dismiss you?’ he asked. ‘This room is for my work, not to amuse my staff.’
‘I meant no harm, Sir.’
Where the hell had he come from? Was she so engrossed that she didn’t hear his footsteps on the staircase? He would want rid of her now and maybe Michael too. From his pocket, he pulled a pair of spectacles and he put them on looking at her face, examining her as a spider would a trapped fly. A wisp of her dark hair had come undone and his hand grasped it gently, sweeping it behind her ear.
‘Where does your curiosity lie?’
‘Sir?’
‘You have an interest in magic?’
Behind his spectacles, his glare softened, his eyes warmed now by the conversation. Evelyn nodded.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Ireland, Sir.’
‘Ah, a land of mysticism. Have you heard the banshee’s howl?’ he said. ‘One day I hope to add an account to my memoirs.’
There was something attractive about his fervour, a childlike excitement at the prospect of witnessing such a thing, that made Evelyn see not her master, but a willing accomplice. Perhaps if she engaged him, he may forget her indiscretion.
‘When I was a child and my mother died’ she said, ‘a storm raged like none I had ever heard. Me and my brother, clutched to my father all night, as the wind howled in and out of every crevice. I remember thinking the very wind was crying, like an animal writhing in a snare. It swirled around us taking most of the roof, as it tried to
escape. It was as if her spirit were fighting with the next world because she didn’t want to leave us. At the burial, my father told me that the banshee had fought for my mother, to let her stay but she had lost her battle and the spirits had taken her.’
She closed her eyes, and for a moment she was back home, the master beside her as the wind howled around them. He was staring at her, fascinated.
‘Would you like to learn more?’ he asked pointing to the bookshelves.
‘Yes Sir, I would.’
‘Well, then we should start again.’ He bowed his head, extending his hand. ‘Vladimir Dermatov.’
‘Evelyn O’Neill,’ she replied putting her hand in his. Her palm was warm but the master, if he felt it, didn’t comment.
‘We shall be friends then Evelyn’ he said, his Russian accent changing the shape of her name on his lips. ‘You will share stories from your homeland and I will tell you all about my collection. You may read any book here, once it does not leave this room.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ For not dismissing her, for listening to her, for letting her explore the secrets hiding in those books.
‘Come after lunch tomorrow and we’ll begin with the ancient Egyptians. And no more of that Sir nonsense. Vladimir will do.’
She daren’t smile, but she imagined Ms. Rosev keeling over if she ever heard her call the master by his first name. As if on cue, the shrill pitch of her voice rang through the hallway, as she called Evelyn to her.
‘Sir,’ she said, bowing her head as she left the room.
From then on, Evelyn brought his meals to him, much to the annoyance of both Mr. Watson and Ms. Rosev. But the master wanted it this way and so neither of them complained, except to each other. A few days later, when she came in at noon with his lunch, he was reading a letter, clutched tightly in his hands.
‘‘This came this morning?’ he asked, not looking up from the paper.
‘Yes Sir, I brought it straight in.’
‘Fetch Mr. Baker...now.’
Sunday November 30th, 1847
My dearest brother,
How long I have searched for you. With the rising of each new moon I wished for success in my quest to find you and at last I have. You have not made my task a simple one, but then what’s one year or twenty when you have eternity like me. Perhaps when we meet you can regale me with tales of your travels and adventures and what led you to settle finally in this beautiful metropolis. I, in turn can relate my tale of survival beginning with the night you gave my life so readily to another.
Did you think me dead? Imagine my bones left to decay in the frozen forest? You must be intrigued. Maybe even a little fearful? Worry not brother. You have nothing to fear from me. Cannot two estranged brothers simply meet and make amends? I would very much like to see you. If I wanted my return to truly be a surprise, I would simply appear one night, when the last curtain has been drawn by Ms. Rosev and the house has shut its eyes until the dawn. But you see there are a great many ways in which I have changed, and such behaviour would be unbecoming the gentleman I now consider myself to be.
If you should be willing to meet and I truly hope you are, please send word by return. I eagerly await your reply and look forward to introducing my long-lost brother to the rest of my family.
Sasha
19
Michael was well up to the physical tasks assigned to him by Mr. Watson, but it was the mundanity that set his mind wandering, slowing his progress until a swift clatter across the head, set him back on course. Like his sister, he was curious about the master’s study and he would imagine various scenarios in which he had come by his treasures. That afternoon, as he washed the front railings in preparation for a fresh coat of paint, he imagined his master as a younger man, running for his life through a sweaty jungle, a bloodied crucifix in his hands. In pursuit, an ancient Pygmy tribe, their poison darts whizzing past his ears. His daydream was interrupted by the solemn face of Mr. Baker coming out the front door towards him. He seemed flushed, his usual cool demeanour gone.
‘Michael, come with me.’
He threw his cloth into the bucket as Baker walked past him to the carriage. Mr. Watson sat up top looking very displeased at Michael’s unfinished chore.
‘Well, come on.’ Baker beckoned him into the waiting coach. ‘The master has a job for you, boy, if you’re up for it?’
‘Yes Sir,’ Michael said. A chance to do something new, out of the house was a very welcome change. He handed Michael a small envelope, its contents sealed with a ‘D’ in crimson wax.
‘I want you to deliver this letter and report back to me. The address is not known to us, but there can be nothing reputable in that area, just brothels and gambling houses. You will bring the letter and you will await a reply, do you understand?’ He paused, then added: ‘Can you hold yourself in a fight?’
Michael started at the question, his adrenalin kicking in with giddy excitement at his mysterious, and seemingly dangerous task.
‘Yes Sir, I can punch well above my weight,’ he said.
‘Good lad, you might need those skills this night. Good luck and speak to no other of this matter, but myself and the master.’
He climbed up top with Mr. Watson. He did not favour his mood, had he sat in the carriage. He’d been excluded from whatever it was that was going on, but he didn’t seek to enquire further. He only glanced again at the address on the envelope and shook his head. He pulled the carriage to a stop at the south west corner of Canal Street and Broadway.
‘I’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘I’m not taking the master’s carriage and horses in there. It’ll be dark soon.’
Michael was expendable but not the master’s horses, or was Watson scared? Could he hold himself if things got rough? Undoubtedly not. He was past the age of fisticuffs, if he’d ever had to engage in them at all. Head clattering, yes, punches, not so likely. Michael got out, his confidence shrinking with every footstep he took further into the slums. He felt the envelope in his pocket, hard and crisp and strode on, his head low, avoiding eye contact with vagrants that huddled around an open fire. He could be one of them, he knew that. Still could be. With any luck, he would return unscathed and please his master. He had no desire for himself and Evelyn to end up here.
As the last light of the afternoon disappeared behind the rooftops, he came to the address on Orange Street – a run-down tavern called The Shrieking Widow. The door gave a loud creak as it opened, the smell of stale liquor and tobacco pipes filling the air. Inside, a boisterous crowd chattered, their voices raised in high spirits helped by the flowing alcohol and the convivial atmosphere. A long bar ran down the left-hand side, bottles stacked high behind it like a fairground game. In one corner, a man played a fiddle while a trumpet played merrily in the back. Men sang songs around both, each instrument competing with the other. The fiddler was winning, with some locals dancing and Michael felt an unexpected pang for home.
Behind the bar, a woman shouted orders to a younger man, her apron strings barely tying behind her swollen physique. In her hand she held a cloth, though it looked like the counter had never known its touch. As Michael approached, she scolded her apprentice, for his slow pace.
‘I’m looking for Mr. Alexander Dermatov,’ Michael said tapping his pocket self-consciously.
The woman let out a cackling laugh.
‘Who? We don’t get them Russians in here boy – you’re barking up the wrong tree here.’
She threw her head back and he could see her rotten teeth, the molars long gone – her mouth a black chasm of laughter.
‘Now, are you having a drink?’
Michael took a step back and looked around. He took out the envelope, checking the street address. When he looked up from it, a tall man was standing beside him.
‘You have something for Sasha?’ came the deep American drawl.
‘I have a letter
for Alexander Dermatov,’ Michael said, unsure as he looked up at the man, who stood a good three inches taller, wearing a wide rimmed cowboy hat.
‘Yep – that’s Sasha alright. Only his brother calls him Alexander,’ he said.
‘I have an urgent matter with him. A letter from my master.’
‘Well, then I better take you to see him, mo chara.’
He grinned, his teeth perfectly aligned and unusually bright. It was an affecting smile and Michael felt himself smile back, the tension easing.
‘How does a cowboy like you, know Gaelic?’ he said, listening to the words as they came out and regretting his familiarity, even if he had just called him his friend.
‘I get around.’
He clapped Michael on the back and motioned for him to follow. As he did, he took in the size of the man, his broad shoulders and strong build. He had only ever seen drawings of cowboys in the penny novels he came across with the other boys from home. This man looked like he had been flung out of the pages. He wore a buckskin jacket over a leather waistcoat with a plain shirt, a neckerchief tied at the collar. His trousers were cotton, missing the chaps, but on his feet, he wore leather boots with metal spurs that spun when he walked. On closer inspection, he would not have been surprised to see the badge of a lawman pinned to his lapel. His face though, did not have the weathered look of a man who spent his days outdoors. It was pale and angular, a neatly kept moustache giving him a debonair look, a wave of brown hair peeking out underneath his hat. It was his crowning glory and he walked with a confidence that Michael couldn’t help but admire.
