by P. N. Elrod
Al's disbelief found its way into sporadic mirth. He vaulted a stile and took off across a pasture, hardly minding his wheezing lungs. "Fancy, I did that. Me! I could have—out of the way, bleedin' sheep!—but I didn't—bastard!—and now—" He shouted gloating laughter to the sky. Across the river, London's great clock tower chimed four.
He reached a village and slowed to a trot, sensing safety in the surrounding cottages, though he still rambled aloud in wonder at his discovery. "The power in those books! I could rule the world! The books—oh ballocks!" Cold reality jolted him out of his smugness: in his panicked flight from Carfax's ancient crypt, he'd left the books behind—all but the one he clutched.
The breath caught suddenly in Al's chest. Pain squeezed it tight. He stumbled to a halt, sobbing for air as he tried to examine the lone book he'd managed to win. It was too dark, and the moon had long since set. Al turned the rough leather over in his hands, peered close, held it up to his face, and squinted some more. All in vain. He swore heartily. Then, through the tangled hedgerow, a gleam of light caught his eye. A church! Dozens of candles in the window, and a bench out of the wind in which to read. St. Catherine's, the carving over the door read. Al took only that much notice of it as he strode up to the church's window, looked at the book, and swore.
"Holy sodding ballocks of Christ! It's the buggering German one!" Suddenly he felt like crying. Al trudged back to the church's front steps and sank down to brood. "You have to go back, you know," he told himself, sniffing. "Nothing for it. You have to get those books. Poltwhistle will serve you up to the Peelers if you don't." His foot began to cramp. Al absently yanked his boot off, getting sheep dip on his hands in the process. Dammit! He wiped the filth on the church's steps, then massaged his foot, mind racing.
"He's dead. You killed him, you know. You saw him." He paused, for he hadn't actually seen. "But you felt it happen." Al stood up, hopping on one foot to pull his boot back on. "There now. Going back. For the books. Off you go—" The back of his neck prickled; a pair of glowing garnet eyes blazed out of the darkness at the end of the lane.
"Shite!" Al lurched toward the door, boot half on, and pulled at the latch with all his might. "Ballocks!" Tripping across the threshold, he hit the stone floor and rolled. His boot flew free. He snatched his foot to safety, watched in horror as the creature appeared out of the darkness. Skin white, bloodless, and waxen but for a single slash of red across the forehead, lips pulled back in a rictus of fury. Pointed, long teeth like a feral wolf in those red lips. His hands were talons. Al felt his heart skip as the eyes, crimson and filled with hate, bored into his for a moment. Then the spell of horror broke and Al realized that the monster was coming toward him. Fast.
"NO!" he screamed, scrambling back. "Get away!" The creature reeled from the church's threshold with a furious snarl. After several breathless moments, Al worked up the nerve to shut the door.
No sooner did the latch click than the monster spoke from the other side in a voice as cold as the grave and rumbling with anger. "Open the door. Now."
Al backed away, hysteria tightening his laugh to a giggle. I sound like the Lunatic! He swallowed hard. "Not bloody likely, sunbeam!"
Something hit the door, made the ancient timbers creak and shiver like matchwood. Al jumped, backed farther. A reek of scorched hair filled his nose as the steely voice commanded him again. "Let me inside!" The tone, icy, murderous, shook Al's bravado to the core.
"Oh no!" Al whispered, shaking his head. "I will not open that door! You can just stay outside and rot! By Gevurah I inv—"
"DESIST!"
With a sudden horror, Al found that the Qabbalic names of power fled his mind like water. He couldn't remember them. Any of them!
A paving stone hurtled through the window, scattering the candles across the floor. Al scrambled to stamp out the flames, his breath coming in sobs as he realized the trap in which he'd snared himself. Much good all that study does you now, he thought, sinking to the floor beside the church's font.
He screamed as another stone smashed in through the window, splintering the rear pew. Couldn't grab Agnes Nutter's grimoire, could you? Couldn't grab the Yetzeroth. Oh no! You had to go and get a bloody useless book in bloody useless German!
"Come out and your death will be quick!" The monster bellowed. "I'll spit you on a sharp stake. I'm merciful." That won a giggle from Al. "Laugh, do you? My servants will hunt you down and destroy you! You cannot imagine my reach!" His rant grew desperate, more a child's tantrum than a devil's promise. "Animals, elements obey my will! I have mastered the arts in which you merely dabble! Your lifetime is the blink of an eye to me, your insignificance so slight it is—insignificant! Damn you— open the door!"
Al whirled to shout at the door and the horror it held at bay. "SOD OFF!" He sobbed, "Shut up, shut up, shut u—" His breath and his litany of despair caught short as he realized that there was only one thing to do.
The door opened. Framed in the threshold slumped his lanky tormentor, head down, defeated. Drakul blinked, then laughed, scenting victory in the boy's terror. "Come forward, slave. Come and meet the death I promised you." He crept from the shelter of his holy sanctuary like a dog on its belly. Drakul licked his lips, tasting already the rush of triumph. This one he would kill utterly. No un-death for this boot-wearing, too-clever peasant.
Drakul seized his prey as he came within reach, shook him to see the fear in his eyes. "Now who is the clever one?"
In answer the youth spit, spraying a mouthful of burning holiness into the vampire's face. It blinded him, sending him reeling to his knees.
"That would be me," came the boy's voice, choking a little with laughter or holy water as he backed away.
Drakul clawed the air, snarling, howling as the lingering fire deepened his agony. "Your name!" He thundered the battlefield cry of old. "Give me your name, little beast, that I may remember you properly!"
Retreating footsteps were the only reply.
Al was well and truly wrecked by the time he got back to Fleet Street. Grinning, he wound his way through the crowds of London's working class, the hard-won book in one hand, his lone boot in the other. Al didn't notice the tall man in the traveling cloak waiting on the bookstore's front step until he'd nearly run into him.
The man turned to scowl, bushy eyebrows lowering as he took in Al's dishevelled state. He looked down himself, suddenly self-conscious. Begrimed and smelling of sheep, bare feet muddy, trousers filthy to the knees. God knew what his hair and face looked like. Al's temper flared and he flushed to the ears.
"What're you staring at, you old shite?" He demanded. The old man's eyebrows shot up, but he looked more amused than insulted. Al ground his teeth and brandished his boot. "Laugh at me, you southern pansy, and I'll feed ye this!"
"CROWLEY!" Al jumped like a scalded cat at his employer's thundering voice. Poltwhistle loomed in the doorway, fists on his hips, towering in apoplectic fury. "How dare you speak so to my client!" Al yelped as the old man grabbed his ear and hauled him into the shop. "What have you to say for yourself?"
Al straightened up, and met the old bastard's eye with a grim smile. "Here. I brought you your book."
He didn't even try to duck as his employer dealt him a staggering cuff to the ear. The German book went flying, fetched up against the customer's shoe.
"Dr. Van Helsing," Poltwhistle said as Al picked himself up, "My apologies. This little thief stole the volumes you ordered but never fear. A brief stay in gaol will remind him of their location."
"Do not to trouble yourself, good sir." The old man stooped, reverently retrieving the volume. "This is the book I require most urgently. Note the title—Wampyre." Poltwhistle began to object, but the doctor ignored him. "This book will stand between mankind and a beast most unspeakable. Good!"
He stood, snapped the little book shut, but stopped as his eye fell over Al, wiping the corner of his mouth. The doctor extended a hand to him.
"You should not fire such a steadfast boy
—curiosity is no crime."
"Beastly Aleister Crowley? Steadfast?" Poltwhistle asked, incredulous as the two shook hands.
The doctor grinned, stepping out into the bright golden dawn. "So. And even a beast can learn, if properly taught."
A Most Electrifying Evening
Julie Barrett
London—fortunately for me—is a city of many diversions. From the high-society theatre crowd to the lowlife in Limehouse, I have had plenty of opportunity to experience it all. One might say I have taken a taste of all this city has to offer. I daresay that my presence in this great city may have had some small bearing on the recent fashion trend of high-necked blouses.
And now, having experienced all that is London to the point of un-deadly boredom, I find myself spending more time in my Piccadilly rooms, reading.
Amazingly, I find myself fascinated with some of the recent scientific advances of the day. Of course, the changes in weaponry over the centuries have not escaped my eye. The lance eventually gave way to the cannon as the sword to the gun, and as a watchful lord of my property I took note of the trend (slow though it was to reach my secluded property) and trained my servants accordingly. After all, it does not suit my purposes to have a poorly defended castle.
The latest trends in inventions met my eye with mixed emotions. Perhaps the most intriguing of them is the electrification of the cities. London has been electrified in places. Indeed, my sitting room has been outfitted with an electric lightbulb. I find the light harsh, and much prefer the softer glow of candlelight or gas. Yet it is not the lightbulb, but another application of electricity which has taken my interest.
A young scientist in America by the name of Nikola Tesla is said to have patented several electric motors in the last year. News of his astonishing experiments with electricity would no doubt have reached my backwater lands within the year, for his experiments hold great promise. His tinkerings with motors are most fascinating to me. Based upon my reading, I surmise that it would be quite possible to create a sanctum within my castle with doors operated by these electric motors. This would make it possible to move solid stone doors with great ease. I also surmise that it would be feasible to create electric locks. Such devices might make it quite impossible for prisoners to escape.
I must say that it was with a certain amount of glee that I read the news that Tesla himself would be lecturing in London. While this lecture was by invitation only to the greatest of scientific minds, gaining admittance would be an exercise in trifles. After all, it would be very easy to convince a member or two of the scientific society that I am an eminent scholar in my own land. The task was embarrassingly easy, for the milquetoast young man in charge of the invitations became "convinced" with minimal energy on my part and only a slight headache on his part. He will think twice about taking a second glass of sherry again.
A lecture hall at St. Bartholomew's had been chosen for the occasion. I slipped into a seat at the rear of the hall, leaving the front spaces for those with less-keen senses. Precisely at 7:30 a hush fell upon the hall. A tall, well-dressed man whom I took to be Tesla himself approached the podium. After arranging the pencils on the lectern in a precise pattern, he began to assay the decanter of water. I'm sure very few beyond the front row heard him mutter the phrase "64.7 fluid ounces" before pouring himself a glass with a white-gloved hand. I, of course, heard the expression clearly. He took a sip of the liquid, cleared his throat, and proceeded to talk.
"My fellow scientists, thank you for allowing me to speak with you this evening." Tesla's voice boomed through the hall. Even the elderly amongst them could hear him clearly. While he had lived in America for the past nine years, his Hungarian accent and method of speech had not altogether faded.
"I come to lecture to you tonight on new advances in the field of electricity. Even as I speak the first alternating current electric plant in the United States of America is being constructed at Niagara Falls, in New York. The falls will provide enough energy to light the entire city of Buffalo, with electricity to spare. Electricity will be cheap and plentiful. It will replace steam in the factories and gaslight on the streets. Soon our homes will be heated by electric energy."
The scientist then asked for the gaslights to be turned low so he might show a series of lantern slides depicting the great plant. When the gas was turned up, an outlandish apparatus stood in the middle of the room. Chairs squeaked and voices hummed as the assembled gathering of scientists positioned themselves for a better view.
"Gentlemen, I give you the induction coil." A large, ring-shaped piece of metal stood atop what appeared to be a tube around which wire had been tightly wound. Several feet away stood a lightning rod. He gestured to two of the more elderly of the crowd who had moved their chairs forward to further examine the device. "Please move your seats back, sirs. Otherwise I am unable to guarantee your safety."
I cannot comprehend most of what I saw that at that point, but when he worked the apparatus an enormous bolt of lightning sprang from its crown to the lighting rod. I felt a tingle run through my body. Mr. Tesla explained the sensation as stray electricity in the air. Whatever it was, I must say I was quite amazed.
"So much for the parlor tricks," he exclaimed as two men threw a cloth over the apparatus. "I will also speak tonight about the new methods to which electricity may be put to use. In America, I have just patented a means by which telegraph signals may be sent through the ether. The signals can be conducted by the electricity in the upper atmosphere." The scientist paused to allow a murmur to pass through the room. "Not only will man be able to pass telegraph signals through the ether, but one day he may transmit his voice, and perhaps even pictures."
Tesla spent the next hour expounding upon one astonishing theory after another. I do not consider myself to be of small intellect, but I had a difficult time grasping much of what he had to say. Indeed, it seemed as though some of the eminent minds in attendance could not fully comprehend parts of the lecture.
I shook my head in disbelief as I filed out with the group of scientists. Transmitting signals through the air was without a doubt the most fanciful idea I had ever heard, and believe me, I've been around long enough to hear much. Still, something about this man intrigued me, so I allowed myself to follow him and a small party of scientists to Simpson's. During the part of our trek when I was in human form I detected another following behind. Any mortal nostrils could have performed this feat, for the scent of cologne that reached my nostrils when the wind shifted was quite overpowering. Another discreet admirer, perhaps, yet I sensed a different type of excitement than what was felt by the party I trailed.
Dining in such an establishment is one of the few pleasures that elude me in my present state. Still, I persuaded the captain to seat me along the wall near a large potted tree. Normally it would not have been considered a good table at this fashionable restaurant, but it suited my purposes well. Not only could I hear Tesla clearly, but the plant afforded a ready receptacle for the glass of wine and bowl of soup that I ordered. As I attempted to secret a small amount of soup away, a stranger approached my table. It was his cologne that had assaulted my senses moments earlier.
"I see you're fascinated by the great scientist." He was an American, judging by his accent and clothing. "May I sit down?" As much as I would prefer to listen to the conversation at the nearby table, I allowed him to join me in hopes that I would be able to rid myself of him quickly, one way or another.
"My name is Jack Danielson, and I represent the Buffalo Power Company." He slid into the seat opposite me, blocking my view of the great scientist. "You look like an intelligent man."
I nodded.
"I am prepared to offer you an investment opportunity in the greatest electric power plant in the world."
Another familiar scent came to my nostrils. Rat. It went strangely well with his overly pungent cologne. This man had targeted me, and I planned to make him sorry for his intrusion. "I was under the impression that this project was
funded by the government and Westinghouse Electric."
The man swallowed almost imperceptibly. I could hear it. "Sir, we are a subsidiary of Westinghouse. Allow me to show you some materials." As he began to open up a small leather portfolio, a woman stopped before the table.
"Mr. Danielson," she exclaimed. Her demeanor was quite calm, if not regal, but I could sense her heart beating quickly out of anxiety. "Has my money been invested?"
"Of course. May I speak with you about dividends for a moment?" He excused himself to take the woman to the rear of the room, near the kitchen door. I focused my ears on their conversation, and was able to hear a few snippets amongst the bustle of the wait staff.
"—of course, this investment cannot pay off until the plant is operational—"
"—my son the duke will be requiring his dividend—"
"—soon—"
"—reclaim my necklace."
I let the conversation go and studied the woman's profile. Of course. I had seen her picture in the newspapers. She was a dowager duchess whose family had fallen on hard times after the death of her husband. Her son had just come into the title, and rumor was she was trying to marry him off, no doubt in expectation of offspring to carry on the title, preferably to some American heiress. Poor woman. Her son had rooms below mine, and the walls are thin for one of my powers. It seems he does not prefer the ladies at all.
A picture formed itself quickly in my mind. This Danielson was the worst sort of predator. Van Helsing and his coterie portray me as a vicious stealer of blood, but I can assure you that those who join my circle do so because deep within their hearts it is their desire. Danielson, however, was a destroyer of souls. I'm sure he mistook my old country dress and ways as a sign of gullibility and planned to take advantage of it.
The leech and his victim rejoined me. Her agitation was noticeable to even most mortals. Normally I wouldn't feel much in the way of pity for this woman. The titled rich manage and mismanage their funds over the course of generations. Most of these families find a way to keep up appearances until the next windfall arrives. Yet she was the victim of this predator who had : single-handedly ruined my quiet, educational evening. I bade the duchess to rejoin her party while I took Mr. Danielson off to a quiet corner of the smoking room and convinced him that he had made a grave mistake and would be refunding the money to the investors.
