by Aderyn Wood
From the Foliss Abesse
Mortal blood contains such vitality, such dark matter laden with power, that none other will match it.
Michael woke to the sounds of birds trilling a morning song. Sunlight shone through the windscreen. He rubbed the kink in his neck then turned to the driver’s seat. The car door was open and Emma was gone. Crisp morning air chilled him.
He sat up with a grunt and opened his door to get out. They were parked in a wooded area – the middle of nowhere. He took a few steps forward to relieve himself, his urine causing steam to rise from the ground. A puddle to the right had frozen over, and everywhere frost sparkled in the morning sunshine.
He closed the car doors, wrapped his coat around him and trudged toward a clearing in the trees; an ancient derelict building came into view. He blinked, adjusting his glasses. It was a ruin, an old stone church. Most of the roof had caved in, but the walls remained in place, though they might start to fall in another hundred years.
Where was Emma? And was she safe? He stepped closer to the ruin. The archway remained, but the door had gone long ago. No doubt it would have been charming in its day. One thing about the Church they knew how to build beautifully. At least they used to.
He stepped through the archway and walked into the interior. Rubble and dust filled the space. His footsteps crunched. Thin windows embedded the walls, but the stained glass that would have filled them had long gone. Dust motes and insects danced in slim rays of sunshine. Little wrens used the church as their residence and scoured the rubble for insects seeking warmth and shelter, their twitters echoing in the corners.
Emma couldn’t be here – too much sunshine for a vampire to safely rest. Michael frowned, wondering what happened to a vampire, exactly, when the sun touched them. They would burn probably, as they did in the movies. But no evidence of a recent fire could be seen.
Most of these old churches had their own crypts for the priests or villagers of importance. He inspected the floor more carefully, looking for a trap door, or an entrance leading down. His search was soon rewarded. At the back of the church where the altar would have been lay a broken stone slab, and beneath it, steps led down. He moved the stone with a grunt and descended. The dust rose and tickled his nose and he sneezed loudly causing an echo in the stony gloom before him.
He stepped into the crypt and his eyes slowly adjusted. Just enough light from above filtered down to enable him to see two or three meters ahead. Sarcophagi sat quietly at rest – big marble boxes that would have kept the dead safe for centuries. One had a body on it and Michael inhaled a sharp breath, but as he drew closer, he saw that it was merely a marble carving – a priest in his robes with his arms crossed angelically across his chest.
Michael stepped further into the darkness and it became too gloomy to see. He brought his phone out and tapped it on. Using it as a torch he could make out the various tombs around him. Something moved, a flapping sound, and Michael whipped around with the light, his footsteps seemed as loud as thunder, but the noise, whatever it had been, stopped, and silence fell again, interrupted now and then with an irregular hollow drip.
He swallowed, remembering now the horror that Emma had become when she attacked Judith the night before. What if he woke her from sleep? He wouldn’t wake her. He just needed to make sure she was safe, and then he’d quietly leave.
Another flapping noise came from the shadows and Michael swung his light, but where to look? Something came at him, screeching, and he ducked and ran a few steps through the tombs, further into the gloom, crouching down. His heart pounded. The flapping continued for a handful of seconds before it stopped.
Bats. That was all it was. Of course bats would take up residence here.
Michael stood and dusted his coat. This was ridiculous. Emma would be safe. He should go, find the village and some breakfast, and return at sunset.
He cast his light one last time and something caught his attention. An arm, a forearm. He stepped closer. Emma lay on one of the tombs. Closer again he stepped until the bluish light of his phone revealed her in full.
She lay perfectly still, on her back, her arms by her side. Her eyes were closed and nothing moved. Her chest neither rose nor fell. She was like a statue. Michael took a deep breath, still wondering at how all of this was even possible. Perhaps vampires were simply a highly evolved demon. It’s certainly what the Foliss seemed to suggest. God made man from the earth. Satan made vampyre from man. Perhaps all he needed to do was to work out how to excise the demon. But how?
He should have left then, but Michael took a moment more to look at her, marvelling at the lack of life. Her skin looked so pale as though it was made of the same marble as the sarcophagus. Her features perfectly carved. He couldn’t shift his eyes from her. His hands moved forward, itching to touch her skin. He reached out to her arm and his fingers lay on her forearm – cold, hard, lifeless.
His phone buzzed and the sharp ring pierced the air. Fear gripped him as the arm beneath his hand twitched. He fumbled to turn his phone off.
Emma sprung up, quick as a snake, transformed into the horror she’d become the night before. Her eyes were slitted pupils laced with dark veins, and the blue lines under her translucent skin bulged. Her hand shot out and grabbed him around the throat, choking him with an icy grip. Michael was hoisted up, and they flew, the cool wind ruffling his hair and tugging at his coat until they slammed down near the crypt’s entrance with a thud. Fiery pain hit his back. Emma’s mouth widened in a screech, her fangs glistening in full display.
She shrank back at the pale light from above. Her hands, with long nailed fingers grasped at her forehead, then her stomach. “Get. Out!” she hissed.
Michael, still on his back ignored the pain in his spine and crawled backwards, clumsily until he reached the step. With one last look inside, he saw the silver of her eyes blink out. He crawled up the stone steps breathing hard until he reached the broken tiles of the old church and lay there on the dusty floor.
“Stupid,” he whispered. “That was bloody stupid, Michael.”
A simple unadorned sign on the roadside announced the closest village – Villar Pellice. He was in Italy; Michael smiled. This far north they’d serve Fontina. It didn’t take him long to find a cafe and order a plate of the melted cheese over toasted bread and ham. His Italian was much better than his French and he’d always felt more comfortable in Italy than the rest of the continent, just as his father had.
The fontina was just the way he remembered it, creamy and wonderfully melted. He finished his meal and sat back to enjoy his tea. It was weak. The Italians were worse at making tea than even the French, and for the first time in a long time he yearned to be back at home.
He looked at his phone. It was Georgette who had called him in the crypt. She would have hated herself for putting him in danger. He tried to call her back then but his phone went flat.
Typical, it could have gone flat back when he needed it to remain silent.
He put it down and took out his tablet to type a quick email. He found the scrap of paper with Georgette’s secret email – [email protected]. Michael shook his head. Crazy cat, really, Georgette?
Dear G,
We are over the border. She sleeps as I write this. We are heading to R tonight and should make it before dawn. I will email you every day, no need to call. I am perfectly safe.
Michael’s fingers tingled a little as he typed the lie. He had been far from safe in the crypt and was glad he couldn’t speak to Georgette; she had a way of getting to the truth. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, his fingers tingling again when they touched the warm tip of silver and wood. He’d retrieved the stake and the cross from his suitcase when he’d walked out of the old church. His hands were shaking when he put them in his pocket. They were his only defence and he needed to keep them close.
Michael glanced at the time on the screen. It was just after ten. He had all day yet.
He went to the counter and or
dered a cappuccino. It was how his father had always started his day and it would be better than the tea. The old lady behind the counter smiled as if she approved his choice. He asked her if she wouldn’t mind charging his phone. She obliged with a nod and a wave of her hand.
He took his seat again and looked out at the square. A few of the villagers were going about their business, stopping now and then to talk to a friend. A different pace to Paris. But that was cities for you. All speed and anonymity. Here the folk greeted each other, ‘Bonjourno’ when they passed, or stopped for brief conversations.
His thoughts turned to his own life in London. Since Judith had left him, he’d done nothing but work. He returned to Ireland occasionally to see his mother, but her disappointment in him leaving the church still bit deep, never mind her humiliation about the divorce, and he could never stay long. Michael had been a young man of twenty when his father died; he’d been in the seminary. His father was calm for an Italian. Always smiling and placating Michael’s fiery mother. Michael would talk for hours with his father when they saw each other. About everything – the laws of the universe, the secrets of philosophy, the mystery of women. And food, his father loved good food. He’d been the cook of their house, and while his father would praise his wife’s cooking those times she’d slaved over a Sunday roast, Michael always found his mother’s cooking bland compared to the rich and varied taste of his father’s meals.
The lady brought over his cappuccino and Michael took a sip, closing his eyes. Yes, the Italians knew how to make coffee. He wondered what his father would do in his place. He’d do more reading. His father always had a nose in a book. ‘A book is the greatest teacher,’ he used to say.
Michael took the Foliss Abesse and opened to a random page. The dense Latin text was small, and he blinked. It always took him a moment to adjust his eyes. In his mind, he translated a little bolded subheading, The Sleeping Vampyre. He read the first line: Never wake a vampyre from their rest.
Michael looked up. He should have read this section before he found Emma. He flipped the pages. He was almost finished. He took a sip of the coffee, reclined, and opened the book. His father was right about reading. He needed to finish the book before sunset.
Chapter 24
When I walk out of the church, the moon and starlight cover the woodland and Alps beyond, giving them distinct shapes. The beauty makes me pause and take it all in, just as I used to do with art or old books and I relish the human sense of appreciation.
The car has been parked closer and Michael sits inside. He snores gently. A wave of guilt rides through me when I remember what happened. It had been so hard to resist – but the light had stopped me and he is still safe.
He must be careful. When I’m awake, and particularly now that the guilt is still with me, I’m not so dangerous. But how long will that last? And what if he now fears me? His fear was strong in the crypt and had tasted like – prey. I step toward the car. The sooner we get to Rome the better.
I open the driver’s side and get in. Michael wakes when I shut the door.
“Emma,” he says as he takes his glasses off and wipes his eyes. “I must have dozed off.”
His scent fills the space, and something new. His arousal. He’d been dreaming – a sexual dream. My hunger is plucked lightly and I open the door and turn my head to the evening air, and the lust thankfully dulls. I focus on my guilt, picturing the horror of what I did to Judith, what I became in the crypt with Michael, and the hunger gutters like a low flame.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” I tell him, my face still turned to the moon.
“It’s all right.” His arousal is replaced with something else. Caution. Better.
I close the car door. “Let’s get going.”
It’s not until we’re on the motorway that Michael breaks the silence by opening a packet of crisps and a can of tomato juice.
He offers the packet to me. “Would you like some?”
I look at him sideways. “Michael, I’m a vampire. I don’t eat food.”
“You drink alcohol, so why not eat crisps?”
I squint at him. “I’ve told you, the alcohol seems to numb the instincts.”
“Perhaps eating human food would also help to retain your humanity.”
I frown, seriously doubting his words, but reach over and grab a handful of the potato crisps, putting them in my mouth. I munch and try to resist spitting them out. They are tasteless, and the texture feels wrong, unnatural. Almost repugnant. But I swallow and the action of eating does feel human. “Perhaps you are right, but I won’t have any more. You enjoy them.”
“Do you remember?” he asks suddenly.
I know what he means. His caution grows. He isn’t afraid, but he had been back in the crypt, when he woke me. I’d come so very close to giving into the instinct and feeding off his blood. I could smell it, that goodness in him, I wanted it in me! Only the faint filtered daylight stopped me, and I’m glad for it now, though at the time it was maddening. “Yes, I remember. You must be careful. What did you think you were doing anyway?”
Michael turns from me and pats his hair down before throwing his head back and looking up at the car’s ceiling with a sigh. “I don’t know; it was stupid.”
His profile holds my eye. His lips look a little fuller from this angle, and the Adam’s apple at his throat makes him suddenly appear very masculine. I tear my gaze from him and stare at the road. “Never wake me again. If I feel at all threatened it seems my instinct takes over and I lose control.”
Michael holds up the little book. “I know. I finished reading this today. It has a whole section on why it’s unwise to wake a sleeping vampire.”
I nod. “What else did it say?” I ought to read it myself, but it’s hard to fully acknowledge what I’ve become.
“Well, there is one silver lining. It seems that you won’t have to feed again for a while. According to this vampires only need to feed every few days.”
I focus on my status. The hunger is barely detectable, but it is still there, lingering, like a thought at the very back of the mind, or a memory buried deep. I do feel good though. Alive. “That is good to hear. I suppose that must be in reference to human blood because when I take the pigs’ blood the hunger is not as reduced. Anything else?”
Michael studies me. A mix of curiosity and caution come to me in a wave, and something else – a lingering essence of the arousal from his dream.
“I will have another crisp,” I say. I need to distract myself. Lust brings out the instinct as much as fear.
He offers me a chip and I munch it down, grimacing a little at the bland taste and uncomfortable texture. Although I detect just a hint of salt and it reminds me of blood and the moisture in my mouth flows.
“It reiterated the fact that with each new—victim ...”
I swallow with the mention of that word. “Yes, go on.”
“That with each feed the vampire becomes more powerful.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh.”
Michael looks at me; he has questions.
“You want to know if I have noticed any more power?”
His eyes widen.
“What is it?”
“That is the exact question, word for word, I was thinking in my mind.”
“Really?” I’m surprised and I smile.
Michael moves in his seat, facing me fully and adjusting his seatbelt. His excitement fills the space.
“Let’s try something,” he says. “I’m going to think of a colour, now you try to tell me what it is.”
I smile again recalling how I used to play such games with my sister when we were children. We’d pretend we had mind-reading powers. But a sudden rush of blue interrupts my thoughts and I say the word. “Blue.”
Michael smiles. I like the way his eyes crease; he has kind eyes. “All right, a place now. I’m going to think of a place.”
London screams in the darkness. “London.”
Michael’s jaw fal
ls open. “What number do I have in mind?”
“Seven.”
Michael shakes his head slowly. “This is truly amazing.”
I nod. “It is rather. And I think that book is right. Some powers have grown. I could feel emotions before, but not really thoughts. Your thoughts are pretty clear.”
Michael turns to face the front again and adjusts his glasses. A wave of embarrassment comes to me.
“Well, at least the thoughts that you purposely throw at me. I can’t read everything.” It is true. I can’t read the muddle of internal musings. Although I can ‘feel’ the emotions they cause – a turbulent mix of excitement, embarrassment, caution and just a touch of something else, familiar, but buried deep.
“Oh, well, that’s good to know. I like my privacy,” Michael mutters. He opens his tablet and busies himself with a map. “How much longer to Rome do you think?”
“About five hours. Are you going to sleep?”
Michael massages his neck. “No, I’ll try to stay awake. We don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.” He smiles, but one thought comes through strongly. He doesn’t trust me. Not after today. I cannot blame him for that. I barely trust myself. The hunger and the instincts are kept at bay for now, but they’re unpredictable and might arise again at any moment. It is for the best that he doesn’t trust me.
We drive in silence for a while listening to an Italian radio station. I seem to be understanding the language, or learning it. My new powers probably enable me to learn quickly.
At two a.m., we pull into a roadside station to fill the car. I remain in the driver’s seat while Michael does the filling and pays. I’m managing well with just Michael; best not risk any interaction with other humans. Something about me arouses fear in people and that is when things can turn ugly.
Michael returns with a mineral water and another packet of crisps. I start the engine and we’re on our way again.
Michael crunches on the crisps. “Tell me if you want some.”
