by Andy Maslen
“Don’t they just breed more?” I said. Looking back I can’t believe how easily I started to believe in Ariane’s world, but the way she looked at me without blinking, without a telltale kink at the corner of her mouth, was very convincing.
“They don’t breed. Something about the ancient mutation that changed them from human to vampire interfered with their ability to reproduce. They live far, far longer than you or I will but they can only sustain themselves by recruiting new members of their families.”
“And you fight them? The cutters?”
“Fight them, and kill them. We are pledged to eradicate them from the face of the Earth; they are an abomination against God’s creation. We have developed weapons that work against them, and we research them, monitor their activities around the world. Now, the vampires cannot tolerate sunlight for more than a few seconds. The UV radiation destroys the cells of their circulatory system. They literally burst with blood. So Peta Velds wants to find a way to re-engineer their DNA to prevent it happening. It gives them double the hunting time and frees them to move among us during the day once more. This is why she hired David.”
I could feel my neck heating up and I touched my throat. Sometimes I can literally feel the blood under the skin. Ariane Van Helsing sat perfectly still, watching me.
“Caroline. I am sorry to burden you with all this new and unsettling information, but there are things you must know. Dracula was real. Oh, not that silly book. I will come to that in a moment. But the man was real. His name was Vlad Drăcul. His family name was Drăculea. He was married, he had children. As I told you before, he also had an extreme thirst for blood. Vlad Drăcul was Vlad Țepeş. Nowadays he would be called a psychopath and a mass murderer. But you must understand, in the 15th Century, rulers could do whatever they wanted, provided they were strong enough to retain power. You have only to look at your own country’s history to see the truth of it. Slayings, torture, mass burnings of heretics, child murders, imprisonment without trial, wars, massacres: this is the history of humankind.
“But I met Peta Velds. She told me all about her family. They weren’t called Țepeş or Drăculea, they were called Feldsalen. It means—”
“‘Field of Scarlet’, yes I know. She has been peddling that lie for centuries. It is a convenient myth that distances all but the most dedicated researcher from her true history. Did she tell you about the slaying of Mehmet the Hawk?”
“Yes. It did sound a little over the top, but as you said yourself, this was the 15th Century. I suppose 10,000 dead in a battle wasn’t all that unusual, was it?”
“Not at all. In fact, it was a modest death toll compared to some other conflicts. Why, on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, the British Fourth Army alone lost 19,240 men. Nobody knows the exact figure for the cumulative death toll but it ran to hundreds of thousands. And the O-One were there, though they did not call themselves that at the time. And did Peta Velds tell you what happened at the battle where The Hawk was slain?”
“She just said that it was a bloody battle and the earth was stained red – hence the confusion over the name.”
“Oh, the earth was stained red, Caroline. Because Vlad Țepeş devised one of his cruelest ever punishments. The death toll from the fighting itself was only 500. His soldiers were tactically and strategically superior and outnumbered the Ottomans. Mehmet was captured almost immediately by a group of turncoats who were loyal to Țepeş and at that point, his troops surrendered, for a loss of just 500. The next day Țepeş had the 9,500 men tied to stakes, head down. He cut off Mehmet’s right arm and bound the hand around the hilt of his own sword. Then he walked amongst the screaming men and slit their throats using the blade carried in their dead leader’s hand. It was a humiliation as well as a painful way to die. When he tired of the task, he had one of the Ottomans untied and promised him his freedom if he would take over. Through sheer terror, or perhaps because he had lost his mind, the man complied. So it went on, for many long hours, with one Ottoman succeeding the next as they fell, exhausted from the work. At the end of the day, there were 9,900 dead Ottoman soldiers, emptied of blood, already a feast for the crows.
“But what about the 100 who helped?” I asked, though I doubted they had lived out their days as farmers.
“He berated them for their cowardice and their disloyalty to their fellows. Then he made them swallow their swords. He invented the punishment on the spot. He had them tied to stakes, then he would push the tip of each Ottoman’s sword down into his throat. They used curved weapons, scimitars – and so as the blade travelled down through the man’s abdomen, it would eventually emerge through his gut or his genital area.
“But if he was a vampire, how come he could do all this? I thought you told me they couldn’t go out in the daytime?”
“Not exactly. I said in sunlight. That year, there was a massive volcanic eruption in the South China Sea – Mount Orarua. Contemporary accounts described a pillar of fire that stretched to the heavens. It deposited a cloud of dust into the Earth’s atmosphere that blotted out the sun for two years. During that time Mehmet the Hawk attacked, perhaps suspecting the lack of sun would disorientate or in some other way hinder his enemy. In fact, it granted Țepeş the freedom to command his troops personally during the day.
“There is only one image of Vlad Țepeş out of doors – a famous and rather nasty woodcut. Other than that, there are a couple of formal portraits only. The reason is obvious. He only ventured out in the night hours, except for that momentous battle.
“But I get ahead of myself. I said I would explain about the book, Dracula. Bram Stoker was fascinated by vampire lore, as you probably know. He was part of a decadent group of aristocrats and intellectuals with too much imagination and too much time on their hands. They included Lord Byron and also Mary Shelley, who would go on to create Frankenstein. The mother presiding over the Dracul family in the 19th Century went by the name Ellen Pierce. She turned Stoker and set him to work writing Dracula. By introducing vampires as a staple of Gothic fiction, she threw the spotlight off their true nature and made them figures of childish frights, to be read for pleasure under the bedclothes, while their real-life counterparts were abroad, and feeding.
“When you say, ‘turned’, do you mean what I think you mean?”
“She fed on him, but did not drain him. The vampire produces two substances that are adaptations to their way of life. The first is an anticoagulant. You know this word?”
I nodded.
“So, it prevents the victim’s blood from clotting. They inject it through their fangs into the wound. The second is a micro-organism, a parasite, that co-evolved with the vampires themselves. It lives in their saliva and contains copies of their DNA with which it infects their victims. In this way they can reproduce themselves. I have studied this parasite and named it lamia multigena – vampire brood. The vampires attack in two ways: purely for feeding, in which case they simply drain their prey dry and the lamia multigena dies along with the victim; and for reproduction, in which case they take enough blood to weaken the person on whom they feed, allowing the parasite to gain a foothold. In the latter case, the parasite restores normal-seeming physical function, but leaves the victim vulnerable to suggestion. They live on to serve the vampires, eventually mutating under the continuing genetic engineering conducted by the lamia multigena at the sub-cellular level. The new host’s mitochondrial DNA becomes transformed and their humanity is stripped away from them in the course of a few months.”
“Wait. You just said for reproduction. You mean they don’t reproduce sexually?”
“Correct. They are libidinous creatures, certainly – the old tales of incubi and succubi are true. But as I said, along with the mutation that led to their taking a darker path to Homo sapiens, they also lost the ability to reproduce sexually – a defect in their DNA. Perhaps God was trying to limit their spread, who knows? But the parasites ensured their vile race continued to proliferate among us.”
; I was almost convinced until some shred of rationality in my overburdened brain fought back. I accused her of confecting a monstrous tale because she was mentally unhinged, or a spy for a rival of Peta Velds. Or just another groupie of David’s. That’s when she offered to show me proof that vampires existed. And I, wanting her out of my home, agreed to go with her to her house in Bloomsbury.
I had to find a way to end this ridiculous conversation. I had a case to prepare for and, frankly, she was starting to worry me. I thought she might accuse me of being one and try to stake me or hit me with a crucifix or whatever they do.
“Look,” I said. “Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I believe you about vampires. Which I don’t by the way. Prove it. Starting with your nonsensical story about Peta Velds.”
“You want me to prove that Peta Velds is the direct descendant of Vlad Țepeş? That will be difficult. We would have to travel to Poland to consult libraries.”
“No. Forget her family tree. Prove vampires exist. Because otherwise I think you’d better leave. David’s only mistake was leaving me here in London, but that will change once we’re married.”
“Proof. Spoken like a true lawyer. Always there must be evidence, yes? Very well. But you must give me some time. A couple of days. Then if I call for you, will you come with me? We will find something to show you that I am sure you will find persuasive.”
“Wait. One, who’s ‘we’? Two, come with you where?”
“We are the people who stand between Velds and humanity in England. Myself and my assistants. I have three. They maintain weapons, do research for me and tend to wounds. You must come with me to our premises.”
“Premises where?” I said.
“We have a facility in Bloomsbury. An old building. It was bequeathed to us in the 18th Century.”
I suppose my curiosity got the better of me, and I agreed. I thought I could spare a couple of hours over the next few days and then I could leave this ridiculous woman to her gothic fantasies in Bloomsbury and head back to our flat alone. And I was right. The problem was, by then it was too late to go back to my case. David was in trouble.
16
Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 17th October 2010
Caroline asked me for proof of the existence of vampires. I can’t blame her. If you are not brought up in the tradition, if you are not either a member of the O-One or the cutter families, then why would you believe? They have spent centuries devising smokescreens, ruses, camouflage: how else could they survive among us for so long undetected? Their masterstroke was that idiot Stoker. He and his gothic obsessions. That stupid book spawned, such an apt word, an entire industry of fictional creatures and completely obscured the true nature of the lamia. And as for that ridiculous notion that a crucifix is some sort of protection: do those fools truly believe that the lamia, a separate species for a hundred thousand years, would suddenly become allergic to a religious symbol created only two thousand years ago? Why? Why not a star of David, or a mandala? No, the only reliable weapons to destroy those hellish creatures are willow, wild garlic and sunlight. And, of course, a sharp steel blade.
So, she wanted proof; I needed to provide it. Not documentary evidence, either. Even though Caroline is a lawyer and must, of necessity, trust books, documents, precedents and written testimony, I felt that what she really wanted was physical evidence. A member of the O-One, in other words. I convened a meeting of my Chapter: Tomas Martinsson, Shimon Gregorius and Lily Bax. I told them we needed to capture a lamia. Keep it alive until we could bring Caroline to Bloomsbury to witness its existence. Then we could dispose of it and start Caroline’s education. Lily spoke first.
“They are easy enough to find, but when did we ever catch one alive? The risks are too great. We should take Miss Murray on a hunt and let her see one that way. It would be more convincing in any case.”
“I disagree,” Shimon said. He always argues with Lily and she rolled her eyes. “Seeing us destroy a lamia might be too much for her sanity. Remember that episode ten years ago? That man is still in a psychiatric hospital. I visit him every year and he is still a wreck.”
“But to capture one. How would we do it?” she said.
“Easy. We track one back to its lair. Wait till sunrise, then—”
“Yes? Then what? Exactly? They don’t go home to sleep, or had you forgotten? They are still dangerous.”
I intervened before they could begin a proper argument.
“Tomas, you haven’t said anything. What is your opinion?”
“I agree with Shimon. To witness a kill would put too great a strain on someone not accustomed to such sights. And mere writings would likely not be the type of proof Caroline is looking for. So, we need to take a lamia alive. I suggest we hunt at night, when the vermin are abroad, and lay a trap.”
“What kind of trap?” Lily said.
“My great-grandfather used to hunt tigers in India with a maharajah. Not from the backs of elephants — that was for rich Americans and British royalty. They used to tether a goat in a clearing, then wait in hiding. As night fell, the goat would begin to bleat in fear for its life — very sensibly, given that a Bengal tiger was on the prowl. Those beasts measured three metres from nose to tail: their fangs were ten centimetres long. The sound and smell would attract predators, but they scared the lesser animals away by throwing stones. They were waiting for a tiger. When the beast arrived, he would be cautious. He would circle the clearing, keeping to the shadows. They were in a tree, smeared with elephant dung to mask their smell. When he was sure there was no danger, the tiger would attack. And so would my great-grandfather and the maharajah.”
“What did they attack it with?” Shimon said.
“Bloody big rifles, of course! What did you think? Penknives?”
The laughter broke the tension and we started to plan how we might replicate the hunt tactics of the elder Martinsson.
“The first thing we need is the goat,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
“A homeless? They like them,” Lily said.
“No. Too dangerous,” Shimon said. “We’re pledged to save lives, not to put them at risk to satisfy the curiosity of sceptical lawyers.”
“What then?” Tomas said. “It must be living, so a corpse is out of the question.”
“One of us,” Shimon said. “We are used to them and can defend ourselves.”
“It’s a good idea, Shimon,” I said. “Are you volunteering?”
“I can think of better ways to spend the evening, but, yes, if that is what it will take, I will do it. I can find some old clothes, leave off shaving for a few days. A nick from my knife to release the scent and bring a lamia out into the open, then you three can spring the trap.”
Tomas laughed.
“Wait, wait! You’re too old and too fat, old man. I’ll do it.”
Shimon grunted and made as if to swat Tomas. But I could see he saw the sense of having Tomas exposed. He is definitely stronger and fitter than Shimon.
“Which brings me to the next challenge. How do we take it alive,” I said.
“A net?” Tomas said.
“And how would we transport it?”
“A crate?” This was Lily.
“The lamia are too strong,” Shimon said. “It would tear its way out. Only steel can contain them and that would be too heavy and unwieldy to work with.”
“I have it!” Lily said, a wide smile on her normally glum visage. “A dog-guard.”
“What do you mean, dog guard?” Tomas said.
“We make a grille in the workshop for the back of the car, bolt it in place, then net the lamia and throw it in. We can transport it safely back to the house then take it down to the basement with braided steel hawsers. Three of us on the lamia and one with a crossbow to keep it docile.”
“And there’s the cage in the basement,” Shimon said. “Maybe cutters did capture lamia in the old days. Maybe that’s what it’s for. We just need to clear out the supplies and oil the hinges a
nd lock and it’s ready to receive a guest.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said.
“But where will we stage the hunt?” Lily said. “This is likely to be a noisy affair and the central London nests are too close to thoroughfares. We should attract attention almost before we had begun.”
“I know of a nest near Richmond Park,” Tomas said. “They close it to traffic at night so it will be quiet. They hunt in those towns along the Thames: Chiswick, Kew, Richmond, Teddington. Their house is on one of those roads that lead to a gate into the park. I have watched it many a time. They are recently turned, less well-versed in our tactics. We should be able to lure one out to the park and take it without too much trouble.”
After that, we spent some time defining specific roles and steps to capturing the lamia. Then Lily went away to begin work on her “dog guard”, Tomas and Shimon left to buy supplies and I retired to my study. I wanted to learn all I could about David Harker and his research.
The following day, we travelled to Richmond, a pleasant enough drive, even though the traffic getting to the Great West Road was the usual London mixture of jams, minor accidents and swearing cyclists. We parked at the house of one of our backers and opened the rear hatch of the car. On the floor we spread out the elements of our capture kit: a net, nothing magical about it, just thick blue nylon that would defeat even an enraged lamia; three crossbows with underslung quivers of willow-wood quarrels – because these are still dangerous creatures and if necessary I had authorised the others to kill it; three braided steel hawsers fitted with running loops; and, key to the plan, a two-million candlepower spotlamp. We intended to isolate the lamia in its beam, disorientating it for long enough to approach and net it. The bulb emitted no UV light so we would not kill the lamia, but we felt – hoped, if I am honest – that the sheer brightness would fool it for a few seconds, which is all we thought we needed.
