by Aderyn Wood
“Come through.”
They stepped past the counter and through a heavy oak door – Patrick’s office. It was just as neat and ordered as the library outside. More books lined the walls. A large desk sat by a window and a fireplace nestled, snug between the bookshelves. Michael had never been in this office before.
“So this is yours now?” Michael ran a finger along the mantelpiece above the fire. Not a speck of dust to be seen.
“Yes. I am the head librarian.”
“No bad blood with Father George?”
“A little, initially. But he’s losing his marbles. The dementia has set in quite completely now. He’s happy reading in the library, with his illicit gospels.”
Michael nodded.
“Please, sit.”
They sat in the hard leather armchairs by the fire, a round polished table between them. Rare books filled the shelves, while the walls were adorned with seventeenth century oil paintings framed in gold. It all smelled of old money. The deep wealth of the Catholic Church still amazed him. But once poor always poor. Judith had told him that. “It’s a head thing,” she’d said.
Michael frowned. He didn’t want to think about Judith now. Especially after her phone message.
“I’m sorry to hear about Judith,” Patrick said.
Michael took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. It seemed he would have to deal with her today whether he liked it or not. “I don’t know what I can say to you. You were right; I was wrong. I should have listened.”
Patrick gave him a level stare. “My friend, I am so sorry to hear it. But, you know, I think there is a great good that has come out of it.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose in surprise, he was not expecting this, from the friend who had begged him to forget about Judith. “She will only bring you sadness. You are a toy to her and when she has finished playing she will cast you aside and search for something new.” Michael remembered his words because they had played over in his head when he’d left the church and then when he’d married Judith, and again when she had left him for another man. His words were truth, as sad as they’d made him feel, they were truth.
“Good?” Michael uttered.
“Yes. Because of Judith, you left the Holy Mother Church. You are no longer a priest.”
Michael blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“I don’t think your heart was ever really in it, Michael. If we’re honest. You’d mumble your way through mass, give a rather robotic sermon, but you never really believed what you were saying and your mind was ever elsewhere.”
“I – yes, I suppose so. But my work, my exorcisms.”
“Oh, you were very good. But you always followed your own methods. Not those set out by the church.”
Michael frowned. “How did you know?”
Patrick looked at his right hand and the red ruby encased by twenty-four carat gold. “Now that I’m on the executive council I have the ear of other leaders in the institute. I may have been privy to some idle gossip about an old friend, from Monsignor Santos.”
“Oh.” Yes. Monsignor Santos had disagreed with Michael’s methods. Despite his success rate, Michael’s techniques were not the ways of the church. They were the ways of his grandmother.
“Nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the opposite. I mean what I say; it is a good thing for you. You no longer have to pretend to be something you are not.”
“I’ve not thought of it that way. Perhaps you’re right. Looking back, I was always clashing with Monsignor Santos on all the policies and practices. And I missed half the masses I was supposed to conduct.”
“I know. Who do you think had to step in for you?”
Michael looked closely at his old friend, smiling back at him. The truth was, Michael had done very little reflection on the whole mess. Opening his buried chest of memories always proved too painful. But, perhaps it was time for him to reflect on such things. “You’ve always known that I was unfit for priesthood. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because, my friend, we all have to find our own paths. Judith was your ticket out. Mark my words.”
“And what about you? Are you happy here?”
“Oh yes. This,” he gestured to the books along the wall, “ has always been my passion.”
Michael bowed his head and thought about his other task. “You’ve been honest with me, Patrick, and I should return the favour. I came here for somewhat duplicitous reasons, I’m afraid.”
“I know you want the address of the old Irish monk who all the demons are afraid of. I have it for you.”
“Yes, but there’s another reason I came here today.”
“Not to see an old friend?”
Michael smiled. “I met a rare book dealer in Paris.”
Patrick’s eyes went to the heavens. “Oh dear.”
“He struck a bargain with me.”
“Yes?”
“He claimed to have a secret book called the Foliss Abesse. Have you heard of it?”
Patrick squinted. “Go on.”
“He gave me this photocopy of one of its pages.” He retrieved the folded paper from a pocket and handed it to Patrick
“Sanguisugae – something about vampires?” Patrick looked up over his glasses. “The missing pages of the Codex Gigas claims to be about vampires?”
“Yes, among other occult beings, that is what the book dealer confirmed. And my translation of that page also confirms it.”
Patrick removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I do dislike book dealers. They are a tiresome breed. So, let me guess your bargain. He wanted you to pilfer some rare and forgotten tome from our library in order to give you the full copy of this questionable artefact?”
Michael bent his head. “A little book called Meditations, by Bernard of Clarivaux to be precise. But do you think this Foliss Abesse is questionable? I’ve never heard of it. If you think it is a fake I will forget all about it.”
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose before putting on his glasses. He examined the photocopy by the lamplight. “There’s been talk of such a book for centuries. Most consider it a myth – as mythological as the Gigas itself. Are you aware that some believe the claims it was written by Lucifer?”
“Yes, I had heard that.”
“Do you think such a thing possible, Michael? As a demonologist.”
Michael cleared his throat. “I don’t discount anything now. Not after all I’ve seen.”
“And this book. You think it might help with your current case? I know you mentioned you wanted to see Brother Gerold, because of his previous commentary on vampire lore. Surely you don’t think they exist, too.”
“As I said, I no longer discount anything. What I need is information. That is why I have come to Rome, to see Brother Gerold, and that is why I seek the missing leaves. I need more information.” Michael’s voice was raised and he softened his tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just getting to be a little frustrating. Normally I would have come to a solution by now, but this case – it’s different. I’m at a loss.” He was letting Lord Farleigh and Susan down. And he was letting Emma down. What if she was waiting for someone to save her?
Patrick took his glasses off again and chewed on a leg of the frame. “No doubt your book dealer friend told you we have five copies of Bernard’s Meditations here, sitting in an unused corner of the library?”
Michael smiled. “He did mention no one would notice one missing.”
Patrick tutted. “Do they take us for fools, these rare book dealers?”
“I wouldn’t have got it past you, Patrick.”
“I’ll strike a deal with you, Michael. I’ll give you the copy. In return you give me this Foliss Abesse. When you have finished with it, of course.”
“That seems like a fair deal to me, my friend.”
At midday, Michael walked the narrow lanes of Ludovisi, a dark and ancient part of Rome. The buildings were all of a black or charcoal stone, so close together they blocked out the sunshine, and c
old embraced Michael once more.
Around another corner and he found what he sought. The abbey was small by Roman standards and very, very old. Its architecture told its age and the ghoulish figures that lined the rooftop – Gargoyles, more menacing and savage than the thousands of others he’d seen in his work. He stepped closer to study the stone – thick and black. Michael reached out and touched its cold surface and his fingers tingled. He’d made the right decision in coming here.
He stepped through the entrance, an arched pillar, and strode the short distance to the chapel. The monastery was empty. There were few monks left now, and they still hadn’t opened their doors to tourists. The place seemed deserted. He opened the door to the chapel and it creaked in response. He reached his fingers to the holy water but stalled, remembering Patrick’s words. He was never really a believer in the ways of the church. Why continue the pretence? He put his tingling hands back into his coat pockets and walked the aisle.
Michael waited in a pew. Patrick had arranged the meeting, and Brother Gerold had said he’d meet him here. The chapel was dark, lit only by weak sunlight filtering through the slim stained-glass windows, and the candles guttering beneath a statue of the Virgin. The crucifix was less ornate than what he was used to in Rome. But the figure of Jesus conveyed pain. Tears of blood streamed down his face and dripped from his hands. Michael’s own hands tingled just from looking at them.
“Michael.”
The voice echoed from behind. Slowly he turned to see a small man, old, grey, wearing the traditional Benedictine black habit.
“You are not here to pray. Come, follow me.” His accent revealed his Irish heritage. Michael stood.
“This way,” Brother Gerold said, and turned, his robe spinning out behind him as he disappeared through a vestibule exit.
Michael followed through the dark passages of the chapel. Doors opened and closed before him and after, until the old Irish monk finally came to a stop in a compact room. One slender stained window gave a little daylight; candles lit a dark corner.
Brother Gerold stood by a table and wore a friendly smile. He seemed so small, so gentle. Could this man really be the great exorcist he was claimed to be?
“Please, sit.” He gestured and Michael took the few steps across the room and sat on a wooden chair.
“You know me, Brother?”
The monk eyed him, smiling still. He nodded slightly as he sat opposite. “I’ve been forewarned of your coming here today. Your grandmother.”
Sharp tingles exploded in Michael’s fingers. He clenched his fists. “She’s – made contact with you?”
Brother Gerold nodded. “She has a message for you, Michael D’Angelo.”
Michael swallowed. Why had she not contacted him directly? He was a medium just as much as any other. Why go to the trouble of contacting someone else? He cleared his throat. No one could understand the actions of spirits; they were – arbitrary. “And what was the message?”
“We will get to that. Why are you here, Michael?” His eyes narrowed. “You are a medium like myself, yes?”
“There’s a bit more to it, Brother. I am – was, an exorcist, just as you are.”
“Oh. I gather you are no longer a priest?”
“That’s right.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
The monk laughed. “You should not feel such shame, young man. You are far from the first to fall in love with a parishioner.”
Michael smiled. He was not so young either. He should have known better than to fall in love at forty. Something about the old man’s easy going nature made him more relaxed about the topic, and Michael’s shoulders loosened a notch. “The truth is I don’t know what I feel about it. I did feel shame once. But, now I wonder if it wasn’t for the best.” He remembered Patrick’s words. “I don’t think the church was the right fit for me.”
“It is rarely the right fit for any. That is why we bend it to suit ourselves.” His grin widened. “Now tell me, why is it you sought me out?”
“I heard about you years ago when I was studying at the institute. Father Leopold Dobrescu spoke about you and your methods in a lecture on the occult.”
“Oh, yes. I remember Father Dobrescu; he had an open mind.”
“He spoke about a range of mythological creatures, and he mentioned you and your commentary on vampires.”
The brother’s smile disappeared. “Did he?”
“Is it true?”
“Truth.” He spat the word, his smile gone as he looked at the little window – the stained glass made his face red. “That word, I despise it. Truth is a lie. There is no such thing; there is only our experience. And each individual has a unique experience.”
Michael frowned. The monk was a philosopher, too. “So you were ridiculed for the notion? I assure you Father Dobrescu was most serious in his presentation of your views.”
Brother Gerold turned to give him a level stare. “Many years ago when I was young, still a novice in Ireland, my – talents – had already become known. A mother came to me, frightened. Her daughter was being courted by a young man who the mother believed was a vampire.”
Michael swallowed, his fingers tingling gently.
“I scoffed at the notion, naturally. Vampires. I had been doing exorcisms for a few short years, but was already very good. Using my own methods of course.” His smile returned. So, Michael wasn’t the only one who used techniques that differed from the church’s teachings.
“The woman insisted the young man was a vampire and rattled off a long list of evidence she had accumulated. He only saw her daughter at night, and seemed to disappear during daylight hours, he didn’t like garlic, he was very pale and ate little in the way of food, though he seemed rather partial to an alcoholic beverage.”
“I’ve not heard of drinking alcohol as being part of the mythology.”
“It was Ireland.”
Michael smirked.
“She claimed he could read minds and, of course, that he had no reflection.”
Michael sat up straight. “No reflection?”
Brother Gerold nodded. “She arranged a family dinner and invited him, along with myself. I took some traditional implements – holy water, a crucifix. She arranged her small dining room and placed me opposite the mirror. We all arrived and sat at the table.”
“And?”
“He was the last to arrive. She had poured us all a sherry and her husband, an old drunk he was, smoked heavily. The small space filled with a haze and the candlelight made it a grim scene indeed. He entered the room and I knew immediately there was something about him. Something wrong.” Brother Gerold held up his hands and waved his fingers. “My hands always let me know first. They tingle.”
Michael nodded. “Go on.”
“He was charming. But there was certainly something different about him. Every nerve in my hands was electrified. He took his seat opposite me, and when I looked to the mirror, it was as though he didn’t exist.”
“No reflection,” Michael whispered.
“No reflection,” The monk repeated.
Michael’s heart thudded like a train, heavy on its tracks. “So, what did you do?
Brother Gerold stood and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. Holy wine. “I must attend to my rounds, Michael. But please come back and see me when you need more information.” He turned, his smile gone, lips in a straight line and the gaze in his eyes deathly. “When you find what you’re looking for, you will need me. Be sure to return to me here – with your target, the one you seek.” The monk took a swill of the wine.
Michael froze, so he’d guessed his mission. He somehow knew about Emma.
“In the meantime—” Brother Gerold opened the bottom desk drawer and rummaged around in it until he found what he was looking for. “Read this.” He handed Michael a small book, the red cover faded and torn, the title written in Latin.
“What is it?”
“It will give you the ba
sics of how to defend yourself. You must be prepared.”
Michael squinted. “Prepared for what, Brother?”
The monk took a final sip of the wine and set the cup down on the desk. “I think you know, Michael. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”
“Of course. Thank you for your time.”
“And remember to return to me when you are ready. With the one you seek. I will give you more information then.”
Michael frowned but moved toward the vestry door, before remembering his grandmother. “Wait, the message from my nan?”
Brother Gerold smiled. “Of course! I had quite forgotten. She wants you to guard your heart; do not easily give it away.”
Michael flushed. “Why wouldn’t she tell me this herself?”
The monk looked at him solemnly. “Perhaps she wants me to know this as well.”
Chapter 11
Excerpt from Michael D’Angelo’s case notes – Sunday 23rd November
Notes from ‘Rituals and rites for the prevention and protection of Vampiric Infestation’ by Dr Berthold Tiedemann. Printed – 1823
Old Romanian countryfolk claim that Strigoi are spawned from evil unrest. This is, in part, true, but in reality only a vampire can create another.
Michael rubbed his eyes. The Latin print in the book Brother Gerold had given him was small, although easy enough to translate. But it was late and the hum of the plane lulled him into drowsiness. He closed the book and put his tablet away.
“Tea or coffee, sir?”
Michael looked up. The stewardess and her perfect lipstick waited for an answer. “Ah, tea, please.”
She placed the tea next to the book on his tray, and Michael wrapped a hand around it, its warmth a small comfort in the cool, dry air-conditioning of the cabin.
His eyes found the book’s title again – ‘Sacrorum ritus ne perfugio et tutela intellegitur vampiric infestatione’. He frowned. Vampiric Infestation. It sounded like a scene from a Victorian gothic novel.
