“You're here to find answers about your past,” Mr. Constant continued. “And you won't find those in the normal archives, because your past is anything but normal.”
“They said my name is cursed,” James said. “I doubted it, but I'm doubting my doubts lately.”
“Nonsense. Your name isn't cursed. It's a very old name, for a very old family, a family with a duty. You are in the line of the blood wardens, an ancient, noble heritage, one with royal blood. Your family abandoned the crown all those generations ago to protect the world.”
“Protect it from what?”
“Evil.”
“What, like Hitler?”
“No,” Mr. Constant said. “It's not the earthly wars that worry us. The fairy tales, the folk tales, the myths and legends … they are not so untrue as many today would have you believe. This world is not as it seems, and it is only one of many worlds. The stories are wrong in the details—sometimes—but not in the spirit of what they say. We are living among the unliving, and when you walk alone in a graveyard at night, others walk with you too.”
He should definitely do the ghost bus tours, James mused to himself. Mr. Constant sounded almost convincing, even like he believed the stuff himself. James wondered how much this private tour was going to cost him at the end. He was sure he'd be paying a special rate to be the “Chosen One.”
“So, what does a blood warden do?” he asked, indulging the old gentleman. He wasn't sure how well the old con would do if he was led too far off script, but he seemed to have an answer for everything.
“Keep the peace.”
“Can't say I'd make a good soldier.”
“Well, you're going to have to be.”
“Why?”
“There isn't anyone else. The vampire families have forged a tenuous truce that has lasted this past century, a truce formed on their great reverence for tradition, but as soon as something shifts—and it is shifting, mark my words—they will be at each others' throats—and ours.”
“The vampires,” James said, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“You don't believe me then.”
James raised his eyebrows. “Did Lilly put you up to this?”
Mr. Constant glared at him. “No one put me up to anything. I do this for the good of our world.”
“Well, it's entertaining, at least.”
“This is not a joke, James. For many it is a matter of life and death.”
“Or undeath. Is there an unlife?”
“I see I'm wasting my time.”
“Well, you're the one who wanted me to come back here.”
“Because I thought you were looking for answers.”
“I am. It's just … not to those kind of questions.”
“But these are the answers, whether you like them or not. Tell me, James, what made you come here? Why are you even looking into your ancestry?”
“I don't know. I guess I felt kind of … unfulfilled. I worked in business, in banking. It was the same damn thing every day. I made money, but I was never happy. I guess I got fed up of the suit, and that damn tie, getting tighter around my neck, choking me.”
“So you took it off, let down your collar, so to speak.”
“Yeah.”
“That's all well and good, James, but don't get too relaxed. You're showing your neck now, and around here, that's very dangerous.”
8
The Night Visitor
After all the bizarre things Mr. Constant had told him, James felt on edge. But he was stubborn, and he dismissed it all as superstition, as the nonsensical ramblings of someone born in a superstitious age. Maybe Ireland just had that kind of atmosphere that made it seem like maybe magic was real, but James couldn't accept any of it. He even dismissed the fears he had about the hotel, and went back there that very night, also ignoring the fact that he was the only passenger on the bus route in that direction.
The front door of the hotel was open, and there was no one there to guard it. Not that anyone would wander in. Part of James, buried by false courage, didn't want to either. The place seemed empty.
He headed to bed, locking his door. He might have had false courage, but he didn't have enough of it to leave the door open.
His dreams were restless and dark. He dreamed of Mr. Constant and what he told him, and then of ghouls and ghosts, and witches and vampires. He dreamed of his grandmother, and her father, whom he had only seen in photos, and of some kind of war. He dreamed of blood, a lot of blood. Then he dreamed of something scratching at the door.
He awoke, and the sound didn't vanish into the dream. It kept going. It kept scratching.
James sat up, feeling the terror form in little droplets on his skin. In his mind, Mr. Constant told him that it was a monster. But he knew it couldn't be. There were no monsters but men. For all James knew, maybe Mr. Constant was one of them.
To be fearless and brave is no great feat, but to be afraid, and be daring anyway, that is an accomplishment worth noting. James was very afraid, unlike his grandmother in the dream, unlike the people fighting the creatures there too. Yet he challenged himself to face his fears, partly to prove Mr. Constant wrong.
He got up and made tiny advances towards the door.
The scratching continued. It seemed to grow louder. He could hear panting and rumbling, and low growls. No wonder Harold's wife ran out of the place screaming. James felt like following.
But if reason was right, as it should be, then the noises were nothing. They were the creaks of an old building. They were the whistles of the wind. They were someone playing a prank. They were the sounds of the imagination. They were that little dog, and nothing more.
Or maybe they were something else.
Just like the dream, there was a battle in his mind.
There was only one way to be sure. He reached for the key in the lock, and though his heart thumped “No!”, and though the sweat poured down him, and though his mind begged him to stop, he turned it quickly and heard the latch open.
The sound echoed. The scratching stopped.
All that stood between James and whatever was out there was that door, that wooden panel, with no metal bar holding it in place. Just a little nudge of the handle, and there would be no barrier at all.
James breathed heavily. On the other side, that something else breathed heavily in response.
It's just the dog, he told himself, though he knew he didn't sound convincing. That was the trouble about the inner monologue. It was much harder to lie to yourself.
He grabbed the handle of the door, and he felt it give way a little as something else grabbed it on the other side. He caught his breath and froze, and then, in a moment of daring, which went just as fleetingly as it came, he pressed the handle down and pulled the door open.
He closed his eyes involuntarily and braced for some assault. His shoulders rose and his fists were clenched. They say “fight or flight,” but all he did was stand there, waiting.
And nothing happened.
He opened his eyes, slowly. It took some time to adjust to the dim light in the corridor. The shadows seemed to convulse to the flickering of the candle flames, and then congregate in one corner as he entered the hallway.
There was nothing there.
Huh was all his mind could muster. It was a satisfied mental sound though, a kind of “told you so” by reason. If there was nothing there, then it couldn't be a monster. It was just his imagination after all.
Yet, for all the satisfaction of that, he had his doubts. Something about that place made it seem like anything was possible, like maybe the gap between reality and imagination was really small.
He stared down one side, where the shadows seemed stronger, and down the other, where even they did not seem to want to go. That way was in the direction of Harold's room. James noticed that the door to it was slightly ajar.
It dawned on him then that maybe all the noises were just the other guest, maybe someone wh
o woke up from a nightmare (as anyone in that unsettling place might), or maybe even someone sleepwalking.
Or maybe Harold had heard the noises too, and came out to investigate.
For all the satisfaction of finding nothing, no monsters beneath the bed, there was more to be found in the agreement and reassurance of others. So James went to the entrance of Harold's room, where there was a literal gap between the door and the frame.
He rapped his knuckles gently on the wood.
No response.
He repeated the gesture, a little harder, and the door pushed in slightly. It almost seemed to open of its own accord.
There were shadows in that room too, but none of them went near the bed, where the light of the bedside candle shone fiercely. Those ivory sheets were covered in blood. Poor Harold wasn't there, but James didn't have to be a detective to figure out that this was all that was left of him. Harold feared he'd lose his money. He should've feared he'd lose his life.
James backed away, stepping out of the room, until he struck the wall on the other side.
Then he heard the panting and the low, rumbling growls from around the end of the corridor, that end where the shadows would not go. He turned his head slowly in that direction, just as something emerged from around the corner.
9
The Beast of Umbra Montis
It reached an arm around the corner, at the end of which was a kind of hand, or a kind of claw. Its fingers were buckled, and its nails were long and curved, and black as death. It dug them into the floor, pulling itself forward a little on that mangled, bulbous arm, with its blemished, mismatching skin. Then its head emerged, swollen and deformed, a mangled mess of lumps, with one large fang penetrating through the roof of its flayed upper lip. It was half-man, half-dog, and wholly a nightmare, with none of the best of man or beast. Part of it was covered in hair, part in skin, and other parts were open sores. It seemed in pain, and looking upon it was painful.
It emerged fully, pressed against the ground as if its own body was a terrible weight. Its back was hunched, and its hind legs were bent and broken, so that one caved in upon itself, unmoving, and the other lay limp, dragging behind it, with its own curved toenails tearing through the woodwork.
Its face was so swollen that one eye was permanently shut. But the other was open, wide and manic, with a piercing gaze that spoke to the soul. What it said, no man or woman could utter, but it suggested that what was done to it, it would do to others.
On seeing the creature, James instinctively backed away. Yet even his own steps were slowed, as if that gorgon glare had turned his limbs to stone, and his will to nothing. It took more effort than it should have to move, and no amount of effort could get that evil creature out of his mind.
The beast was slow at first, but as James regained some control of his body, backing away more swiftly, it started to speed up. There was a hunger in its reddened eye, a desire for flesh and bone, and maybe the gnawing of a soul as well.
James ran, turning on the spot, stumbling in place, grasping the wall for support, finding his footing uneven, his pacing slow. He could hear the lash of nail against wood, and the thump of the body behind it as it lifted itself up, only to come crashing down again. He could hear splintering bone, and the cry of anguish and famine of the beast.
The corridor seemed unending. No door gave way to James' fumbling hands. No window illuminated the path ahead. The oil lamps wafted out one by one as James passed, throwing him and the creature into a more oppressing darkness. The shadows fled with him, making terrible gestures of fear and panic on the walls. The floor groaned beneath their feet and claws, and the beast bashed it and tore at it, until the wood splintered like its own breaking bones.
James glanced back, even as he knew he shouldn't, and he was caught again in the mesmerising gaze, feeling suddenly sluggish, until he could see the beast making a leap for him. James fell, and the creature landed upon him, dragging itself up over him, letting itself collapse upon him, so that his bare skin could feel the bristles of its hair and the dappled texture of its hide, and the wet and burning of its drool, and the slicing sting of its claws. Its weight was unbearable, a crushing force that held back any fight James had in him. And then its face, that terrible uneven skull with its rash-covered scalp, came close, until its eye faced directly James' own.
James thought of Harold, and what it must have been like to have been torn apart by this horrible beast, to have his blood splatter the bedsheets and the walls. He wondered when the pain would end, if it would be quick or slow. He questioned if there was an afterlife, and if life there would be any better than here on earth. Yet he even questioned if maybe this was not earth at all, but Hell, and here upon him was his demon accuser. All thoughts of past and present, and what might be, came upon him like a flood, like the spittle of the beast that washed his face.
And then he realised that it was licking his face, that its coarse tongue was tearing across his cheeks, leaving behind a stinging saliva. This was the taste, James told himself, before the bite, before the tearing and slashing, before the devouring, before the digesting.
But time passed, and none of those things came. It slurped at his face, but did no more. If anything, when the fear of it all faded just a little, when James had partially accepted his fate, finding no strength in him to fight it, the beast seemed like a playful dog, not a hateful hound.
Yet, when the creature clambered off of him, and James felt the feeling return to his arms and legs, he backed away, scurrying across the floor, until he struck something. He glanced up to see a woman standing there in a long, red dress, the colour of Harold's bedsheets.
“So you've met my pet,” she said.
James could barely utter a response. The “pet” still scrambled down the corridor towards them, maybe to the woman, probably to him. Maybe it only came to play. But there was a game called life and death.
“Don't you worry about him,” she said, without any sense of reassurance.
The worries came more and more, piling on top of each other like the dead.
“You know what they say,” she continued, and she smiled, until her own fangs were visible even in the dark. “Beware of the owner.”
10
The Red Council
James did not know if it was the panic of it all, or the glare of the beast, or the vampire's own hypnotic stare, but he found his consciousness fading. When he awoke, feeling drugged and groggy, he was glad that the candles were dim. Yet it was not the light that attacked him, but the memory of what came before, and the threat of what was coming.
He flinched, and felt the tight grasp of rope around his wrists and ankles. This summoned back the panic of the beast's restricting weight, and his eyes involuntarily sought out that creature, sitting at the foot, and slightly to the side, of a large throne, where the red-dressed woman sat like a queen, her dress flowing down to the floor, her figure etched into the shadows, her silhouette sculpted like a statue. She sat perfectly still, her right hand resting on the beast's head, and her left held up, poised and delicate, yet revealing her own chiselled claws. Upon her hand was a crown of many jewels, and resting by the arm of her throne was a serpent-headed sceptre.
Beside her sat another, who wore a kind of long tunic, dark blue in colour, over a well-fitted and somewhat archaic suit, with frills and chains. He was the epitome of what people thought of when it came to the Victorian era, as if, indeed, he had crawled out of a painting from that time. It did not surprise James that he found himself thinking: maybe he had. This man, if he was a man, also wore a crown, though somewhat smaller than his companion, and there was no sceptre in reach for him.
Around the large meeting room were many others of all types, yet all dark and sombre, with dour, pallid faces that best belonged in the grave. All those eyes were upon James in the centre, tied to a chair, which itself was fixed to the floor with bolts, suggesting that he had not been the first to be restrained there.
“Our guest,
” the woman said, rotating the wrist of her left hand, until it gestured outwardly, as if to take his own. Perhaps it was meant as a symbol of welcome, but since he could not shake it, it seemed more like mocking.
Suddenly the entire room of people—if they were people—stood up, all in unison, a kind of militarism that was off-putting, like the fists of the dead punching through the earth together. Some seemed a little reluctant to stand, but they stood all the same. All but the woman and the man at the front, who stayed seated on their thrones, and the beast at the woman's side, which purred through its blistered lip.
“You look frightened,” the kingly figure said, drawing up suddenly from his seat, and seeming to float across the floor, his gown covering his feet. His shoes made no noise, and only the crumpling of his clothing would have alerted anyone to his movement. He came up close to James, bringing his hand to James' face, caressing his cheek gently, though brandishing his own pointed nails much too closely to James' widened eyes.
“Do not fear,” he said. His accent was strange, perhaps of Eastern European origin, albeit mingled with a hint of others. He seemed genuinely concerned, even pained, that James was afraid. He sucked a long breath of air through his teeth, through his fangs, and spoke swiftly, “We mean you no harm.” Something about him came across convincing, but James was not sure if this was a mere display, or yet another demonstration of those fiends' hypnotic powers.
The man moved around behind him, and James' eyes followed, until the trail of the vampire's gown vanished into the shadows. He could feel something behind him, but it did not feel like a man. He felt the shiver of someone walking upon his grave, yet the thought came to mind that in this room—this tomb—he was walking inside another's.
“We have called a council,” the woman said, stealing James' attention once again. Her voice was as seductive as her dress. He found himself staring at her ruby lips, feeling a sense of yearning, and yet wondering if the ruddiness was from lipstick or from blood.
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