by Aderyn Wood
“No thanks.”
“We haven’t talked of your family. You know they are the reason I was looking for you. I sent Susan an email to inform her I was chasing a lead in Italy, not exactly a lie, but we’ll have to decide what to do about them soon.”
I can feel his indecision. “What are you not telling me?”
He looks at me. “This mind reading thing is going to be a bother if I want to keep something from you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s just that the book spoke about the dangers of vampires when they first turn; they are drawn back to those they love. Do you feel any desire to return to your family?”
Have I? I miss my sister. Father has always been strict and cold as stone, but I do love him. However, there is no pull to return to them. Not like in Paris with – I gasp.
“What?”
“Well, I don’t really feel what you’re talking about with my family, but that is exactly how I felt in Paris. That is why I watched Anais and John, I think. In Paris, they were my family.”
Michael squints. “Perhaps it has something to do with proximity?”
“I don’t feel any particular pull to them now, so you could be right.”
“Well, I suppose Susan and your father will have to be happy enough with my email for now.”
I don’t want to make a decision. If I reveal my existence to them, they will want to see me. And if Michael is right, I could put their lives in danger if I were to return; as father would demand if he knew I was still alive. But if Michael told them I am lost, they would never gain the closure they seek. Perhaps it would be better if Michael were to tell them I am dead. “I will come to a decision about my family. I just need a little more time.”
Michael nods. “Of course.”
By four a.m., we arrive at the outskirts of Rome, and by five the little monastery right in the centre of the city.
We park in the courtyard and I kill the engine. It is quiet here, a little sanctuary within the busy hustle of the ancient city. A single lantern casts a soft light, highlighting the moist cobblestones. The small church is made of stone turned black by the centuries. “It’s old,” I whisper.
“Everything is in Rome.” Michael opens the door and walks to the back where he retrieves his suitcase. “Let’s go.”
Inside some candles are still alight and they cast ominous shadows on the statue of the Virgin Mary. I look around. I’ve worked a lot with Catholic artefacts and books. But still, the power of the iconography has an effect on me, even now in my new state.
The paintings of the Stations of the Cross, depicting the brutal way in which Jesus faced his end are gruesome and too real in their cruelty. His flesh and blood depicts pain and that great Catholic value – sacrifice.
We walk to the end of the aisle and face the altar.
“You stay here. I’ll fetch the monk,” Michael whispers, and he walks over to a door and leaves, closing it behind him.
Beyond the altar, the crucifix hangs and the sorrowful image of Christ suspended on the cross haunts me. I study him. His head droops forward. Blood drips from his hands and feet, and the cruel slash to the heart from the Lance of Longinus that some say belonged to the devil himself, is red and swollen. I focus on myself now, trying to ascertain if the cross has any ill effect on me as it is supposed to according to legend. According to Dracula. But there is nothing. I feel no urge to retract, no sudden weakness. Perhaps it’s just another myth. Others come to mind. What about garlic? I spy the holy water in the marble basin by the altar and I’m tempted to walk to it to plunge my hand in and see if that is a myth, too. But the door opens and Michael returns with a small elderly monk.
“Brother Gerold, this is Emma.”
The little monk walks forward, his small black eyes narrowing. I feel a rush of curiosity and mistrust, and something more – sinister, and then as suddenly as the emotions come they are shut off and nothing remains.
How did he do that?
I open my mouth to say hello, I want to show I am polite and civil, despite becoming this abomination, but the monk has thrown his hands in the air. His voice, deep and loud, incants old indecipherable Latin and suddenly I grow weak, tired and sick all at once, like my energy has been drained. I stumble back and sit on the front pew. My head falls to my hands and finally the monk stops his chant. I look up but he takes the opportunity to place something around my neck. Something that burns my skin. I try to handle it to get some relief but when I touch it with my hands, it burns them, too.
“What is this?” My voice is raspy.
“Silver,” the monk says, “with a cross at the end.”
Michael steps forward. “You’re hurting her?”
The monk snaps his head around to study Michael, his gaze going back and forth between us. Then his stare finally rests back on me. “I will not risk you endangering our lives here. You will do as I say or you will be dealt with. Understand?”
I nod. It is for the best. This man obviously knows the danger, and I am glad someone else will regulate my behaviour for now. I am so tired; all I want to do is sleep.
Michael isn’t happy. “But this is cruel, Brother. She’s in pain!”
The monk scowls. “It would be much more cruel if we were to allow her to go unbound. She is dangerous, son. Mark my words.”
“It’s all right. Michael. This is for the best.” Something else now tugs at my strength. The sun is close. “Please, where can I rest?”
“In the crypt. Follow me.” The monk turns toward the door. I stumble, but Michael gives me his arm and I manage to follow.
Chapter 25
Excerpt from Michael D’Angelo’s case notes – Monday 1st December
From the Foliss Abesse
The Sanguis Sicarii have become the sole enemy of the Vampyre. They, among all mortals, must be sought out and vanquished, lest they commit their natural purpose.
Michael sat in an old chair, adjusting the tapestried cushion in an attempt to get comfortable. His eyes itched with fatigue and he longed for the bed Brother Gerold had promised him. But he wouldn’t sleep yet, he needed some answers.
“So silver has an effect?” Michael asked, his voice croaky from a dry throat.
Gerold nodded. “Yes, it helps to dull their powers.”
“And the crucifix, too?”
“It is a cross, not a crucifix, and it only works if it has been properly ensorcelled by one with such power to do so.”
“Who can do such a thing?”
Gerold waved his fingers. “I think you know, Michael. Those of us with certain gifts.”
Michael frowned. All his life he’d been learning about his gifts, and now as a man in the peak of his power, he thought he’d learned all there was to know. But, he’d been wrong, there was so much more. “Was that a prayer of some kind? Those words you said? Something about sunlight and blood?”
“A prayer, or a spell, something like that.” Brother Gerold filled the kettle at the small sink, then put it on the little stove, and arranged the cups on the table. “How do you take your tea?”
Michael took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. “White with one.”
Gerold placed a teaspoon of sugar in each cup and a dollop of milk. “The Italians don’t know how to make a good cup, but the Irish do.” He gave Michael a wink.
He had to smile. “I agree, my mother is Irish. She taught me well.”
“And your father?”
“Italian.”
“Did he drink tea?”
Michael shook his head. “Coffee. And hot chocolate.”
Brother Gerold sighed. “If only the Italians would come round to tea.”
The kettle boiled, and he poured their tea and handed Michael his cup before sitting on the chair opposite.
Michael warmed his hands on the bone china and took a sip; closing his eyes and feeling his shoulders relax a notch.
“She is a killer now, you know. A time bomb in fact.”
> Michael opened his eyes and his shoulders tensed again. “I’ve read as much in that book you gave me. I have it here for you.” He took the book from his coat pocket and handed it to Gerold. “Thank you. It was useful.”
Brother Gerold took it, nodding.
“But I do wonder if there is some way to save her.”
Gerold shook his head. “No, there is no cure. The longer she goes on the more the hunger and her new instincts will take hold of her. She will eventually give in to it and feed, and then feed again, until she becomes the ultimate monster. An efficient killer.”
Michael frowned. “But, what about the guilt? She feels crippling guilt after each victim.”
Gerold raised an eyebrow. “How many has she had now? Victims?”
“There was a woman early on. But she didn’t kill her. It was her maker, Nathaniel who killed the woman for her.”
“Nathaniel Chartley,” Brother Gerold whispered.
“Yes, you’ve heard of him?”
“Of course.” He waved a hand. “But go on.”
“Well, she was attacked by three men in an alley one night and she retaliated, and killed all three, feeding on them.”
“A likely story.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I take it you do?” Brother Gerold’s small eyes were piercing.
“Yes, I do believe her.”
“You’re a fool to. She is a vampire now, a master manipulator. They feed off our emotions as much as they feed off our blood. Do not be fooled. Michael, my little man, you must guard your heart.”
Michael’s skin crawled and his hands tingled; bolts of electricity now struck up his arms. He looked at the monk; his eyes were black and had a far away look to them. Only one person called him that – her little man. “Nan?”
The monk’s face softened into a smile and he rose, like a puppet, and cupped Michael’s chin with his thumb and forefinger – a gesture Michael’s grandmother had used time and again. “Yes, Michael. Be careful. Guard your heart. You are in grave danger.” The monk exhaled a long sigh, and stumbled back into the chair, his head fell to his chest, his shoulders slumped. Michael’s grandmother had left her medium.
Michael blinked, his heart racing. All this time he’d believed the warning ‘guard your heart’ was to do with Judith. But it was a different warning altogether. A cold trickle of ice skipped along his neck as he realised the implication. She was warning him against Emma.
Michael swallowed. He’d tried to avoid the thoughts, but now he needed to be honest with himself. He was drawn to Emma. He had dreams, erotic dreams, and as they’d driven to Italy in the dark hours he’d found himself looking at her longer than he should – studying her fine features. His heart skipped a beat whenever she looked his way. He must be honest, truly honest, or he would be in danger.
Brother Gerold coughed and raised his head, blinking. He focused on Michael. “It was your grandmother.”
“I know.”
“You see my point now.”
Michael adjusted his glasses. “Yes.”
“She is dangerous.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
Brother Gerold took their cups to the table and refilled the tea, he reached for a cupboard and extracted a bottle of whisky, pouring a little in both cups. Michael took his and drank deep. The fire of the whisky was exactly what he needed.
“I do not kill vampires. It is too risky. But I know someone who does.”
Michael frowned. “Who?”
“She and her kind have been called many things throughout the centuries – reapers, collectors – now the trend is to call them slayers after some popular television show.”
“Vampire slayers?” Michael was about to scoff but that term from the Foliss Abesse came back to him, Sanguis Sicarii, and his fingers tingled. Should he tell the monk about the Foliss? A touch of adrenalin crossed his heart and Michael wasn’t sure if it was a warning to keep the ancient book secret or not. He bit his cheek. No, best not mention the Foliss, not yet.
Brother Gerold remained deadly serious. “Just the one. Her name is Amynta and you must go to her. She will deal with Emma.”
Michael shook his head. “No. I was hired by her family to find her. And now I have, I can’t be a party to her murder.”
“She has no family. She is as good as dead to those she left behind. You know what will happen if she returns to her family.”
Michael felt his jaw clench.
“Michael, answer me. Do you know what will happen?”
Michael closed his eyes.
Brother Gerold sighed. “She will kill them, consuming their blood, the blood that is much like her own, or what it used to be, and the scent of it will drive her mad. Anyone she loved before her turning she will want to consume, if only to get some of her old life back. The vampire is a complex creature. They yearn to go back, to how it was before, as much as they yearn for more power. And the blood, it is all in the blood. It is like a drug to them, the more they have, the more they want. Especially when they are young.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair disturbing the cowlick at the back. “What if there’s another way? What if she can hang on to the guilt? She says it seems to anchor her to her humanity. All she has to do is remember the woman, her first victim and the hunger, the instincts, seem to disappear.”
Brother Gerold frowned a little and Michael got the feeling this was new information to him. It encouraged him and he continued his hypothesis. “What if it were possible for Emma to train herself, to live with her new affliction?”
“I think you need to heed your grandmother’s words. I think Emma has started to weave her power over you, and you aren’t the slightest bit aware of it.”
Michael recoiled as though he had been punched. Yes, he was aware of it. And perhaps the monk was right. His theories and his need to protect Emma for her family, perhaps these were just excuses.
“No, you must take her to Amynta,” Brother Gerold continued. “There is no way around it. In any case, she will find you. I’ve told her that I will send you to her, and if you refuse, Amynta will hunt you down.”
“She wants to kill Emma so badly?”
The little monk poured more whisky and swallowed it whole, his lips smacking together. “No, it may please you to hear she is after a bigger fish than Emma. And she is hoping Emma will be the perfect bait for her catch.”
Michael squinted. “You mean Nathaniel.”
Brother Gerold shrugged. “Certainly, she’d be happy to get her hands on Chartley. But, her target is bigger still.”
Michael swallowed. “You mean the gypsy woman.”
Brother Gerold nodded. “The very one.”
Chapter 26
I watch the blue-black waves of the Ionian Sea. Their rippling surface reflects the cloudy sky. The ferry that carries us is due to arrive in Corfu at five a.m. From there we’ll have two precious hours at most to get to our destination, where I shall meet my fate. I close my eyes and swallow a gasp as I shift the silver thread off my chest for a moment.
It stings the way salty water used to irritate an open wound. The monk said the silver would help dull my powers and the instinct. It seems to work. Though my hunger is returning, just a little with each day. I drank my stash of alcohol last night when we left Rome and drove all the way to the guesthouse in the South that had a landlord who asked no questions when Michael asked for the basement room.
Yes, the hunger is definitely returning. Not so much as to overpower me – yet. I grip the rails of the deck as the ferry rolls over a fat wave. A gentle rain falls now, adding more moisture to the salty breeze. At least it isn’t so busy at this time of year and most of the passengers stay inside, watching the endless prattle of a television game show. Sometimes one or two of them venture out for fresh air, or a cigarette, and I feel their eyes on me. No doubt, they wonder what I’m doing in the far corner of the ferry, in the very middle of a cold rainy night, gripping the railing and staring ou
t to sea.
Another set of eyes cast their gaze, more familiar. His emotions churn. Michael. His eyes are on me often now and it excites my hunger. It is becoming too dangerous for him, this journey. I lift the silver thread and think of Judith’s face, and Jeanne’s scream, and allow the guilt to flourish as I close my eyes. Jeanne’s children have no mother now because of me. And I attempt to recall what it is like to lose a mother.
“Emma.” Michael’s voice is in my ear. He stands beside me, his hands gripping the railing close to my own.
I open my eyes and look at him.
“How are you doing?”
I grimace. His internal battle is strong. I feel it as easily as I taste the icy salt of the wind.
“Emma, you don’t have to do this. We can go elsewhere. To Egypt like we said.” There is a deep excruciating lust that lurches from him. My vision shifts so that the colours of the sea sharpen. The sea is not blue; it is aqua, turquoise, violet and more. The rapid fall of raindrops slow, unnaturally, and I can see each glassy droplet in motion. His man-scent is too strong. My tongue grazes the sharp incisors that elongate and I force a breath of salty wind. “Go back inside, Michael.”
A sense of rejection radiates from him. “Yes, of course.”
He leaves and I feel some relief as he walks away. The long talons at the end of my fingers retract once more. I hope this slayer either kills me or helps me with this hunger that grows too unpredictably.
The port at Corfu is large and busy with cars, trucks and motorcycles. The ferry arrives half an hour late, and it takes Michael another half an hour to get any directions that make sense. I sit in the passenger seat playing with the silver thread and squeezing it against my palms. Finally, at six, we are on the road. Michael drives and I touch the silver more frequently. The sting of it on my fingertips provides a healthy distraction from the rising hunger. I wish I had more alcohol.
“Emma? Are you okay?”
Michael’s voice sounds too loud, too close, and I am not sure if he said it out loud or in his mind. He looks at me awaiting an answer. His anxiety and concern thickens in the small space of the car.
