The Last American Vampire

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  “Changed my name? I don’t follow.”

  “Grander… it’s you, isn’t it?”

  Crowley’s eyes narrowed, then widened with delight. “You think I’m Grander?” Another booming belly laugh. “Oh, delightful! Oh, that is absolutely delightful, Henry!”

  “But you are the Ripper. This game, this ruse, is how you planned on getting back at me?”

  Crowley laughed again.

  “Get back at you? Henry, if I’d meant you harm, I would have harmed you. I was merely having a bit of fun; that’s all.”

  “You call sending a whole city into panic ‘fun’? Tearing four women apart ‘fun’?”

  “Five women. They haven’t found the last one yet. And yes, I do consider it fun. Have you lost your sense of humor? Good Lord, Henry, they’re just humans.”

  “So were we, once.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

  Crowley hunched his shoulders. The air let out of his balloon.

  “I must admit,” he continued, “this is not going at all how I’d hoped. Aren’t you the least bit happy to see me? Aren’t you going to ask how I’ve been? How I managed to survive after you tried to burn me alive and abandoned me on that savage continent?”

  “No.”

  “Good heavens, the anger! I can hardly breathe through it, Henry! I thought you might have gained a bit of perspective by now. I thought we might sit down and share a laugh. Catch up on three centuries of stories. Of travels, philosophy, music. I thought both of us might benefit from having a kindred spirit in London.”

  “Share a laugh? With you? Are you mad? You killed my wife and child! You condemned me to walk the earth as a monster! If I should live to see time itself run off the end of the tracks, I shall never forgive you for what you did!”

  “I gave you everlasting life, dear boy. I liberated you from weakness and sickness and death! And I daresay, if anyone should be angry, it’s me! I kept you sheltered and safe. I fed you, cared for you. And in return, you betrayed me. Burned me alive! Left me for dead and ran off with our dear child.”

  “A child whose parents you murdered.”

  “What choice did I have? I’d been discovered.”

  “You didn’t have to kill them, Crowley. You didn’t have to slaughter dozens of women and children.”

  “I spared you, didn’t I? And little Virginia?”

  Crowley’s eyes lit up at the mention of her name.

  “Whatever became of our dear child?” he asked. “God bless her and keep her… Please, if nothing else, I must know that. I can’t tell you how often I’ve found my thoughts drifting to that angelic face. Those red ringlets. Oh, that dear child. There are stories14—you’ve heard them, no doubt—stories of her living in the wild, bedding down with Indians. Nonsense, of course, but they do serve to stir the imagination. I must know. Surely you understand how curious I’ve been. How long did you manage to keep her alive? And yourself! How on earth did you ever manage to keep yourself alive? Tell me… I promise I won’t think any less of you, but tell me, did you feed on her?”

  “I would’ve starved before I laid a hand on her.”

  “Indeed, noble Henry, indeed. But surely she didn’t grow old. Surely hunger or sickness took her quickly. Tell me, did you weep as you dug a little hole in the earth for her?”

  I could feel Crowley poking around in my thoughts, searching for a clue, a memory. I tried to keep my mind empty, but he was as skilled a reader as any vampire I’ve known, and try as I might, I couldn’t keep the images from playing back. Flashes of Virginia as a baby, a little girl…

  “She lived,” said Crowley, “and you loved her, as a father loves a daughter.”

  “Enough…”

  There was ten-year-old Virginia, skin and bones and knobby knees, topped with red hair that fell in curls to the middle of her back… playing with her Algonquin brothers and sisters in the perfect and tranquil light of those halcyon days. There was Virginia the teenager, the freckles on her nose fading away, taking long walks by herself—“I need to be alone, you don’t understand, just leave me alone, please, Father”—as the winter gave way to spring. There was Virginia the young woman, the awkwardness gone, but a new awkwardness. Both aware of it, both feeling it, a pair of magnets in orbit, attracted one minute, repulsed the next…

  “My God…,” said Crowley. “You fucked her.”

  “Watch your tongue!”

  “Her ‘savior’! Her ‘knight’! Not even the long-suffering Saint Henry could keep his hands off her! Ha!”

  “Shut your mouth…”

  “The stench draws you in, doesn’t it? Even in the youngest of them. That delicious stench, and subtle gestures, oh, I know them well. Tell me, did you wait until she bled? Or did her perfume intoxicate you?”

  “You were wrong to play this game,” said Henry, reaching a hand into his coat pocket. “You were wrong to bring me here. You’ve brought about your end.”

  “You forget, boy… I walked the earth for two centuries before your mother opened her legs and squeezed you out. I made you… I hand-fed you your first meal when you were but a helpless infant.”

  “I’m not so helpless anymore.”

  Henry drew his hand out of his pocket and struck it against his belt buckle. The tightly bound bundle of matches sparked into a brilliant white phosphorous flame, blinding Crowley’s sensitive vampire eyes.

  It was a trick I’d learned from Abe, back in his early hunting days, when he came up with the idea for his “martyrs.”15

  When the flame died out, Henry was gone. Absorbed into the ether like a spirit, in the instant it had taken Crowley’s eyes to adjust. Before he had time to turn his head and look for Henry in the shadows, Crowley felt a bolt of pain shoot through the whole right side of his body. He looked down and watched his right arm fall to the carpet, severed just below the shoulder. The blood of a dead whore spilling out of it. He stared at the arm, farther away from him than it had been in nearly five hundred years—no, that’s not right, that can’t be—then turned around. There was Henry, standing in front of the hearth, holding the bent fire poker he’d just swung with all his might.

  “Look what you’ve done,” said Crowley.

  Henry swung again. This time Crowley was ready—bringing his left arm up to shield himself. The poker left a deep gash where it met Crowley’s forearm but didn’t go clean though. However, without his right arm there to balance him, Crowley stumbled and fell backward from the force of the blow, landing in a seated position. Henry took the opportunity to strike again—bringing the poker down with both hands and splitting the top of Crowley’s skull clean open.

  I had to use force to pull [the poker] out of his head, and when I did, I could see clear down to the middle of his brain. I panicked—please, don’t let him be dead, not yet. I kicked myself for doing it too quickly. See, it wasn’t enough that Crowley had to die. He had to suffer, just like the colonists at Roanoke had suffered. Just like the Whitechapel victims had suffered. And, I suppose, as selfish and dramatic as it sounds, to suffer like I’d suffered.

  Crowley had fallen backward onto the carpet. He was helpless, but he was still alive. It was good enough for Henry. He dragged Crowley over to the fireplace by his shirt collar, grabbed a fistful of gray hair on the back of his neck, and held his face in the flames of a civilized fireplace, just as he’d once held it in the flames of a doomed colony. Crowley began to scream, though in his condition his “screams” were more like moans. The moans of an animal in terrible pain, which hasn’t the words to express its suffering. The skin began to slough off Crowley’s face, dripping like candle wax onto the iron grate. His body began to thrash, but Henry held on. This time, he wouldn’t let go until the screaming stopped.

  To be human is to be inhumane.

  He lied, of course.

  I decided to keep the truth from Doyle and Stoker. Stoker might have known that I was a vampire, but he didn’t need to know about Thomas Crowley or Virginia Dare.
When we met up at my house later that night, I told both of them that I’d scared off the Ripper, whoever he was, when I’d arrived. I’d knocked on the door, I said, and gotten no answer. But I’d heard a window open around the back of the house, and run around the side just in time to see a tall figure jump over the wall of the back garden. To tell them otherwise would have meant opening myself up to too many questions. Questions of who Crowley was, or how he and I had known each other. Or why he’d singled me out in the first place. We agreed to turn the information over to Scotland Yard and let them investigate the mysterious man with the size-fourteen shoes. I was confident they’d never find him, seeing as I’d hauled a bag of his charred bones and rocks to the river’s edge and tossed it in before sunrise.

  “Well,” said Stoker, rising from his chair at the close of a long evening, “we shall just have to remain diligent and pray that the devil has had his fill.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I suppose we shall.”

  “And I suppose we should be thankful, too,” said Stoker. “If it was, in fact, the Ripper’s home, and he’d been there to greet you, who knows what might have happened? My God, Henry, rushing headlong into a situation like that by yourself! In retrospect it seems sheer madness!”

  “A shame,” said Doyle, taking his coat from a rack by the door, “that you weren’t able to get a better look at the scoundrel. It might’ve provided a critical clue as to his identity.”

  “Indeed,” said Henry.

  “But,” said Doyle, “allow me to second the sentiment of my good friend, in giving thanks that no harm befell you.”

  Henry showed his appreciation with a slight bow. Doyle grabbed his cane and reached for the door but hesitated.

  “Oh, Henry,” said Doyle. “One last thing… Why, in all this time, have you never told me that you are a vampire?”

  I was paralyzed. Shocked to my core. Stoker tried to fill the vacuum that had been left by Doyle’s words. But all he could come up with was—

  “Are you mad? ‘Vampires’? Good heavens, Doyle, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come off it, Stoker. You’ve known it all along. After all, I would expect you to recognize a vampire, having worked closely with one for so long.”

  Now it was Stoker who was shocked.

  “My suspicions began,” said Doyle, “when I noticed the two of you sharing a concerned look upon my mentioning a lack of blood at the scene of the Nichols murder. I thought little of it at the time but made note of it.”

  “But…,” said Henry, “how—”

  “Elementary, my dear Sturges. You claim to be in the textile business, as advertised on your calling card, yet when I erroneously referred to the fabric found at the scene of Ms. Stride’s murder as ‘velveted herringbone,’ you made no attempt to correct me, despite the fact that no such fabric exists—something any textile importer would surely know. Now, this in itself was no reason to suspect you of anything other than a tendency toward politeness. But as you had shown no such tendency in any of our other interactions, one could assume that you were, in fact, ignorant of the particulars of different fabrics. Hardly believable for a man who makes his living from them. It was therefore reasonable to assume that you wished to keep your true profession a secret. Furthermore, you recently hired a butler, a maid, and a coachman—but not a cook. A strange omission for a man who clearly has the means. Again, one might assume that you prefer to take your meals out, yet I have never heard you make mention of doing so, nor voice any opinions, favorable or otherwise, of a single restaurant. And on those occasions when we have dined together at Mr. Stoker’s or elsewhere, you have merely made a show of eating—pushing food around your plate, taking small sips of wine and letting the liquid trickle back into your glass. I also noticed that, before shaking hands with others, you make a habit of rubbing your hands quickly together, as if they are in need of warming, even on the hottest of days. You’re also in the habit of wearing dark glasses when outdoors, no matter how clouded over the sky. And, if given the choice, you always choose to sit farthest from windows during the day but make no such distinction after dark.”

  These were illusions I’d practiced and perfected over hundreds of years. And he’d picked up on them. All of them. It was remarkable.

  “And you took all of that and decided that I was a vampire? Don’t you think that’s a bit… far-fetched?”

  “When you have eliminated the impossible,” said Doyle, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  He turned for the door but stopped. Turned back.

  “Oh, and, Henry—you needn’t worry about me sharing this information with another soul. I value your friendship far too much to betray your trust. To say nothing of my own life. Besides… you’ve given me a great deal to write about.”

  SIX

  Electric Company

  Heaven for climate, Hell for company.

  —Mark Twain

  Strange, thought Adam. I wasn’t expecting any callers.

  Though “Union Headquarters” was its official name (a rather uninspired one, Adam thought, but such was the American way), the building at the south end of Broadway was really little more than a glorified private residence, Adam being its sole permanent occupant. Its king, he liked to think, though he kept such thoughts to himself as they were, again, decidedly un-American. And the grand ballroom on its ground floor was his court. And there he’d been on Friday, November 25th, 1898, reading a newspaper by the light of the fire. News of the terrible rainstorms that had blown their way up the coast earlier in the week, bombarding New England with hurricane-force winds, sinking or destroying half the Massachusetts fishing fleet, and sending a steamship, the SS Portland, to the bottom with all 192 souls aboard.

  “Terrible, terrible,” Adam had muttered to himself as he read the news. Humans had such brief lives as it was, making their untimely ends all the more tragic.

  His peace was interrupted by footsteps echoing through the ballroom. Adam looked up from his paper. The hall was dark, save for the light from the fireplace behind him. But with his vampire eyes he could make out the details in the shadows. He saw three hooded figures approach. Two of them were broad-shouldered brutes of men, but the foremost, while tall, had a youthful, almost radiant face. A face that Adam didn’t recognize. They were all vampires; he was certain of it. But he’d never met them… and that frightened him.

  “Hello, Adam,” said the foremost of them.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  The youthful vampire smiled and came forward. “Incredible. It’s really you. Forgive me if I seem amused. I admit, you aren’t at all what I expected. I’d pictured you… older.”

  They mean to kill me.

  “How dare you enter this building.”

  “You can understand why I would’ve had this picture in my mind,” said the youthful vampire. “The Union itself is such an old institution. A relic, really. Fitting that you should have a tunnel connecting your little social club to a church, isn’t it. A bunch of old priests, clinging to a book of woefully outdated scripture. Preaching the doctrine of brotherhood between vampire and man. It would only stand to reason that such an institution would have a wizened old fool for its figurehead. But then, you are an old fool, aren’t you, Adam? Under that boyish face of yours, you’re nothing but a weak old fool who’s ashamed of his race.”

  “You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” said Adam.

  “Indeed.”

  “You know who I am, yet I don’t recall ever meeting you before.”

  “Oh, but we have met, in a sense. I sent you a gift. Well, five gifts, to be precise. And in return, you sent one of your pets to try and hunt me down, tsk, tsk.”

  Adam suddenly felt as if his body had been plunged into ice water.

  “You…,” he whispered. “You’re Grander?”

  “You seem surprised. You were expecting a royal, perhaps? A pampered old bastard such as yourself?”

&n
bsp; Adam rose. Enough of this. He may have been an old fool, but he was still a powerful vampire. And these three would soon regret ever laying eyes upon him.

  “Have you gone through all of this trouble to come here and spout insults at me?”

  “No. I’ve come to kill you. But you already knew that from poking around in my head, you naughty old dog.”

  Adam tried to hide his surprise. He’d always been a skilled reader. So skilled that even other vampires were usually unaware of his presence in their mind. This Grander was more powerful than he’d thought.

  “Others have tried,” said Adam. “I’ve scattered their ashes on every continent.”

  Grander laughed heartily.

  “Listen to yourself! You even speak like a relic!”

  “Do you think,” said Adam, undeterred, “that in my seven centuries, I’ve not met a hundred of you? Those who would kill me for my love of mankind? You needn’t ask what became of them, for I’m standing here before you now.”

  “They didn’t have my patience. Or my vision.”

  “If you’re so sure of yourself, then why did you bring them?” Adam indicated the two brutes behind the youthful vampire.

  “Because I wanted witnesses. I wanted them to see the end of a weak old age.”

  “Kill me, and the Union will never rest until they find you. You’ll start a war.”

  “Oh, my dear old man… I’m counting on it.”

  Those were the last words Adam Plantagenet ever heard.

  Another century was over, and another friend was gone. On November 26th, 1898, Henry had received a telegram in London. It consisted of just a few lines:

  GA92 8=NEWYORK 442P 26NOV 1898

  MR H STURGES NO 2 CHESTER SQ LDN

  OUR OLDEST NON-WESTERN FRIEND ABOVE GONE TOO SOON. REQUEST YOU HASTEN TO HIS HOUSE TO SHORE UP FOUNDATION. CABLE REPLY.