by Brian Lumley
Vavara pretended not to have heard him.
They conversed in Szgany, the language of their own world, but they were Wamphyri and their linguistic skill was astonishing. They had been on Earth for only three years but understood every language they heard spoken in the taverna. Greek had been easiest of all, for it was the closest to their own tongue. And as for Szgany: some of the tourists at nearby tables might well have overheard something of Vavara and Malinari’s conversation, and they may have wondered in passing about the tongue, but the Greeks didn’t give it a second thought. The world had become a very small place, and catering to foreigners a way of life …
It was late evening; the sea was dark as Malinari’s wine; the bouzouki music from half a dozen different taverna sources mingled meaninglessly, but Malinari at least didn’t mind. “Personally,” he said, “I find this place oddly pleasing, strangely attractive. The music is soothing, and the odours from roasting meats—” he lifted his head to sniff at the night air, “—they remind me of Sunside hunts in the long ago. Yes, I think I like this island.”
“Well I don’t,” said Vavara, and at once returned her gaze to the sea and watched the languid lights of a string of fishing vessels bobbing in the near distance, as the boats returned to harbour.
“You don’t care for it?” said Malinari, and poured himself more wine from a bottle in a bucket of ice. “Good! Then when we set the boundaries, I shall call on you to remember what you’ve said tonight. And perhaps I’ll make Krassos my headquarters.”
“What?” Vavara raised an astonished eyebrow and glanced at him again. “You truly like this place? You’re not joking?”
He shrugged. “It’s isolated, and the thoughts of its handful of people are simple thoughts. Oh, they have their passions the same as all men, but far removed from those of Earth’s more sophisticated throngs. In my casino in the mountains of Australia, I was surrounded by these so-called ‘sophisticates’. They were vain, greedy, and overly ambitious to a man. Civilized on the outside, yet seething within, their massed thoughts were a tumult: always thrusting, intruding, seeking to gain the upper hand. You can have them all! But when I am a Lord again—which I surely will be, commanding of my own vast territories, my own peoples—then let any thrall of mine think to advance himself beyond food in his belly, a woman in his bed, borders to patrol and beasts to tend … and he shall go to the provisioning!”
Vavara heard him out but her eyes were hooded, thoughtful as they studied his expression, his words. “And so it begins,” she finally replied. “Or so it will begin. ‘Borders to patrol,’ you said, and ‘beasts to tend.’ You speak of the provisioning: of your aerie, of course, or in this world your mountain range, or your island, or perhaps an entire continent? Is that how it will be, Malinari, one hundred years or more from now? Borders and … and beasts? But surely you mean warrior creatures? And as for provisions—or the provisioning of which you spoke—well that could only be for war, obviously!”
Again his shrug, but now he spoke more guardedly. For this was after all Vavara’s territory (for the time being, at least). “In a hundred years … who can say how things will be? Vavara, we are Wamphyri! And as for what I said of sophisticated men—of their vices and passions—well, we have them all in spades! It’s what we are and we may not change it. Nor would I want to. Nor would you. But for now we’re allies, and we’ll have enemies enough without that we fight each other.”
“In spades?” She frowned. “We have them in spades?”
“It’s a term I learned in my casino in Xanadu. One of many things I learned as I watched men at the gaming tables losing their money to me. Ah, but there’s far more than that to be won from these people. Even their world entire.”
“Their world entire,” she repeated him. “And again there’s that in your voice which reveals what’s on your mind.”
He sipped at his wine and said, “Oh, and are you a mentalist now?”
“Bah!” Vavara answered, curling her lip a little. “No, for I shall leave the voyeurism to you. And don’t try to change the subject. You have already foreseen a time when we’ll be at each other’s throats again. I can’t say I like the idea. And anyway, you see too far ahead. Things could get difficult enough today, tomorrow, or next week, without that we go conquering worlds or counting our shad calves tonight, even as the first wolf howls to his brothers on high.”
That last was an old Szgany expression, for to Vavara and Malinari—having slept the centuries away in the Icelands—the lost paradise of Sunside seemed as yesterday. Also, Vavara was wont to cling to the old ways far more than her guest was. But as for the wolves of which she spoke: Malinari knew her meaning only too well.
“Hardly the first wolf,” he said with a scowl. “And by no means the last. Yes, I had problems in Xanadu. Even a disaster, but I was fortunate and saw it coming. What’s more, I think we can be sure it will come here, too. After all, you haven’t done your best to stave it off. That Gypsy girl you told me about—that was a serious mistake.”
“Nor have you helped!” Vavara snapped back. “What of sweet Sara?”
“Sweet before you got to her, perhaps,” said Malinari. “Do not forget that I saw your handiwork. But at least her body was firm. Oh, I would have had her, aye. Despite her disfigurements I would have had her blood and body both, for my sustenance and pleasure. But she fought me like a mad creature—such furious strength! It was her vampire, waking up in her; she was ascending! So don’t blame me, Vavara. Indeed, you might perhaps thank me. For if Sara hadn’t died that night, what then? Ah, but that could have been a real problem. And anyway, it was you who gave her to me, remember?”
“You hungered for blood after your long journey here,” she answered. “I gave her to you for the blood, not the sex! I fail to see how any man could want sex, not from Sara, not after—”
“After what? After you had … teased her, in your special way? Because she had been too pretty, perhaps?” Malinari smiled his sardonic smile. “But her buttocks were still very firm, and her legs were long and shapely. And gazing into vacant eyes, as opposed to eyes filled with dread … that might have made for a very pleasant change. Each to his own tastes, eh?”
“And then you let her best you,” Vavara went on. “And she threw herself down from that high window, into the night ocean. Why, for all I know you might have thrown her down yourself, in a furious rage when she fought back! So don’t you try lecturing me on my mistakes, Nephran Malinari! Hah!” She tossed her head.
“But when she washed up on the strand like that,” Malinari pressed, “after I had told you that Sara was Wamphyri and had a leech—?”
“Aye, that, too,” Vavara answered grudgingly but far less angrily. “With Sara locked up in her cell all that time, I had failed to notice her condition. Plainly I had let things go too far with her. Well, and what of it? The sea took care of that, and I took care of the rest of it, the ones who came to examine her. But yes, you are right: we’ve both made serious errors. As for whose mistakes were most damaging to our cause: at least I have corrected mine. But as for yours …” She shook her head.
“They lost me my foothold in Australia, true,” said Malinari, “along with all that I had bred there in accordance with our plan. A setback, Vavara, that’s all, and I can start again. Or perhaps you’ve been so industrious on my behalf that I don’t need to start again. Have you forgotten your promise—to show me what you’ve made here, under the place called Palataki?”
“No, I didn’t forget,” she answered. “And indeed I need to check that all’s well up there.”
“So let’s stop all this quarrelling,” he said placatingly. “We should finish up here and go. These people are getting far too boisterous, and we can do without involvement. The Germans are drunk, and those Greek lads at that table over there: it’s obvious that they find you fascinating. But there again, what would Vavara be without her fascination, eh?”
Malinari was correct. Several members of the German party were well and truly i
ntoxicated by this time; they were staggering between tables, determined to introduce themselves where they weren’t wanted, annoying the mainland Greek, British, and other holidaymakers alike.
As for the young, local Greek men he had mentioned: three of them sat at a dimly lit bar inwards of the taverna, where they drank cheap, undiluted ouzo from a tall bottle. Just a little while ago the bottle had been full; now it was three-quarters empty, and their interest in Vavara had increased commensurate with what each of them had drunk.
Now, inspired by Malinari’s comment, Vavara deliberately turned in that direction, smiled at the men, and brushed back her shining black hair with both hands. This action not only revealed her pale bare arms as they rose from under her shawl, but also lifted her seemingly perfect breasts. And the points of her apparently erect nipples stood out in sharp definition beneath the red silk blouse that she wore.
Gypsyish and wanton, and delighting in it—for a single frozen moment she looked unbearably delicious. So much so that Malinari himself felt his mouth go dry. But unlike the youths, he knew that it was only her allure.
For chameleon Vavara could be all things to all men—and women—and liked to practice her art. But she hadn’t mastered it yet, not by any means, and rarely presented the same facade twice. Malinari had known her for most of his life, albeit that more than half of that life had been spent in stasis, but even he couldn’t have described her. Not the true colour of her eyes (other than when she raged and they were uniformly red), or the angle of her jaw, or even the curve of her lips, except to say they were always tempting.
For it was all a sham, a guise, a hypnotic image that she projected to cover her true form. But while Vavara’s physical appearance was a lie, Malinari knew the truth of her mind very well indeed. For that was where his talent came into play. And at times like this, in close proximity, Vavara’s mind was such a cesspool that if it was a reflection of her true being, then she was a monstrous, wrinkled, sagging hag!
And perhaps she was, perhaps this was how she compensated for some other deficiency. For Malinari knew that she was lacking as a metamorph, a shape-shifter; he had never once seen her take to the air, except upon the back of a flyer. If Vavara had aged accordingly—her sluggish flesh unable to keep pace with the years—then mass hypnotism would be a perfect foil against the ravages of time. And of course the Wamphyri were ever vain, not least their females.
His thoughts returned to earth and he looked for the proprietor to call him over and pay the bill. A bottle of wine and two bloody chunks of red meat (which had scarcely been touched) were the total of their meal. The logariasmo should not be more than a few thousand drachmas.
As for the drunken members of the German party: they were arguing now over a spilled table that one of them had collided with, and an English tourist was complaining bitterly over the retsina stains on his white jacket. Not only the mood but also the music had changed. Instead of the melodious bouzoukis, the air was suddenly raucous with heavy metal and the nasal vocals of some neutered rock group.
Feeling the first lightning-flash stab of a headache coming on, Malinari winced and put aside his wine. He could sense curious thoughts aimed in his direction, or far more likely in Vavara’s, but ignored them and withdrew into himself a little, so avoiding painful contact.
The young Greek men who had been so obviously enamoured of Vavara were already leaving. Starting up their motorcycles, and swinging their slim backsides into the saddles, they roared off along the seafront three abreast in a cloud of dust, with their studded-leather jackets gleaming in the night.
As they went, one of them looked back, lifted his arm and waved a farewell, or a salute, at Vavara. And she responded by smiling and inclining her head.
“You ought not to play up to them,” Malinari told her as he paid the bill. “They’re young and they’ve had too much to drink. To such as them, a nod is as good as a wink.”
“Oh, let it be,” she answered carelessly. “It amuses me to set them drooling, to know that they’re wondering about me, and fantasizing in their dirty little minds.”
“Oh? Can we afford to have them wondering about you, do you think?” he asked her as they left the taverna, stepped into the night, and walked along the Skala Astris promenade, between the open-fronted tavernas and the sea wall, among a last handful of late-season tourists making their way back to their accommodations. “What, and you the mistress—the, er, ‘mother superior’—of a monastery?”
“But they don’t know that,” she laughed deep in her throat. “This is the first time that I’ve been out on a night like this. And on those rare occasions when I’m seen in the evening, up at the monastery, then of course I affect the drab trappings of my order, which are designed to hide one’s person away from prying eyes. I find it very easy to emit an aura of holiness … or of unholiness. So don’t concern yourself, those panting Greek pups only saw what I wanted them to see.”
“Don’t we all?” said Malinari.
Skala Astris was little more than a strip of half a dozen flimsy hotels backing the tavernas, which themselves backed the sea wall that sprawled a quarter mile to the west before giving way to the beach. Beyond the wall, chunks of white marble stuck up from the deep ocean, huge blocks of the stuff, each weighing many tons. Other than tourism, the main industry of Krassos lay in exporting quality marble; its by-product, faulty or inferior rubble from the quarries, was put to use in landfill, building, and the substructure of jetties and quays.
But in the long ago, before tourism as it was today, there had been other industries. The Germans had been here for a long time, and not only as tourists.
On top of a steep dark hill maybe a half-mile to the east, remote by Krassos standards from any other village or building, the structure that local Greeks had named Palataki rose up like a gaunt, out-of-place (and certainly out of time) very un-Greek gothic mansion. Its name meant “little palace,” and some years before the Second World War a German firm had built it there as the headquarters and offices of an exploratory mining concern.
For as well as small deposits of gold and silver, minerals had been discovered on Krassos that were important to Germany’s future war effort. And the island’s artisans—without knowing exactly why the Germans were here or why they’d bought the hill and the lands around, but in need of the work as always, and so not bothering to ask too many questions—had set to with German plans and built Palataki.
Then, when the work on the literally palatial building was finished, rough labour had been easy to find among the island’s poorer classes, who had been pleased to accept work in the mine tunnels that would soon burrow through the loose soil and rocks of a wooded spur and promontory between Palataki and the Aegean. Spillage from the shafts had gone down into the sea via a bight east of the promontory, where dark red flinty mounds were still visible in a region of the coastline that had been irreparably damaged.
But the mining operation had failed; the minerals had been low-grade, and the work had ceased. And as war came the Germans had moved out, retaining ownership of Palataki and its grounds, mining rights in the promontory, and nothing else.
Then for sixty years the place had stood empty, gradually falling into ruins, and because of its gloomy, gothic aspect it had gained something of a bad reputation among the local communities. All of which served Vavara’s purposes very well indeed.
Explaining these things to Malinari as they strolled along the promenade, which was quiet now as taverna lights dimmed one by one, Vavara said, “There you have it.” Then she pointed east and said: “And there it stands—Palataki! I purchased it from its German owners with the money you sent from your casino. And do you know, it would make something of a grand aerie in itself if I were not satisfied with my fortress monastery. But while a monastery makes a very fine manse, Palataki—”
“—Has other uses, yes,” Malinari finished it for her, his night-seeing eyes taking in what they could of the near-distant silhouette: its four storeys risin
g up from the hill, with high gables, towerlike cupolas, and great windows. “I find it truly appealing and very impressive,” he said. “Probably much more so close up. But you have to admit, it’s in conflict with the rest of this island. I fail to see what the Germans wanted with such a place—or perhaps not. Do you know anything of this world’s history?”
“Not a lot,” Vavara answered. “But then, knowing so little of our own history before our time, why should I concern myself with theirs?”
“To know your foe is to be able to anticipate him,” Malinari answered. “And knowing his history is part of the strategy. I think that if the war had gone in their favour, these Germans would have come back and remained here, and Palataki would have been far more than a block of offices for some mining operation. Far more likely it would have been a bastion of the Third Reich in this region, their headquarters in these islands. Looking at it, at its gaunt and grandiose style, I can see everything that der Führer was or wanted to be. With his sigils of power—his great black swastikas on fields of blood—hanging from those windows, Palataki would be perfect! He was something of a man, you know, this Hitler.”
“He had his good points, I suppose,” Vavara shrugged.
“His good points?” Malinari smiled grimly. “If he had been Wamphyri … ah, but then there would be no room for us, eh?”
They had reached the harbour. Most of the boats were in now and tied up, and the dark water lapped sullenly, gurgling among the berths and moorings. Back along the sea wall, no one was to be seen, and the lights in a huddle of houses behind the hotels and tavernas, the original old fishing village of Skala Astris, were out. This late in the season, with only a few tourists to cater for, the “night life” was wont to die an abrupt death …
Vavara had left her limo in the care of her driver, a senior sister, about a quarter-mile out of the village in a partly concealed lay-by. Since a good many local Greeks knew that the vehicle belonged to the monastery, she deemed it prudent not to be seen getting into or out of it in any guise other than that of a nun—and especially not in the company of Malinari.
