Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (84 page)

My heart sank as soon as I rounded the last corner and clapped eager eyes on the structure.

Nora was careful to keep her homes in good order, and this one, though not at all fallen to ruin, yet exuded an unmistakable air of non-occupation. Leaves and mud cluttered the dingy steps to the front door; its paint was in need of renewal. The brass knob and knocker were tarnished. The windows were fast shuttered and undoubtedly locked from within.

I could hardly have felt worse if the entire building had been a gutted wreckage.

Slowly completing the last few paces to the door, I knocked, knowing it to be a futile gesture, but needing to do something. No one came, nor did I hear the least sound from within. I looked ’round the street. It was empty for the moment.

Then the whole of it melted away in gray mist and vanished.

I pressed hard against the door, aware of its solidity, but well able to seep past it like fog through a curtain. Grayness again, then shapes and shadows, then muted colors and patterns. I was standing in her foyer, and it was dark.

Only a few glimmers of illumination from the diffuse winter sky got past the shutters, not enough to really see anything. Opening a window would not be an especially good idea; I saw no advantage announcing my presence to her neighbors. They might come over to investigate the intrusion, and then I’d have to answer questions. . . . I could also ask some, perhaps obtaining a clue to her whereabouts, but Oliver had already done that, I remembered.

This much I could see: The furnishings were either gone or draped in dust sheets. No pictures adorned the walls, no books remained, no candles, either, I discovered. Not until I bumped my way to the kitchen in the back of the house did I find one, a discarded stump no more than an inch long. Making use of my tinderbox, I got it lighted, but had no stick or dish to place it on. I made do by fixing it to the box with a drop of melted wax.

The kitchen was not as deserted as the rest of the house. Though clean enough, there were probably still crumbs to be had for the rats and mice. I could hear them scuttling unseen inside and along the walls. Leaving them to their foraging, I went back to the central hall and hurried through the door to her bedroom.

Emptiness, both in the room and in my heart. The walls were stripped, the curtains gone, even the bed where with much joy I’d lost my virginity was taken. The dust coating the floor was such as to indicate things had been in this deserted state for a long time.

The other chambers were echoes of this one. Everything that was important to her, everything that
was
her, was missing, taken to God knows where. Oliver said she’d left for the Continent, but he’d not mentioned just how thoroughly she had removed herself.

Feeling ten times worse than before, I came down again, this time to investigate one last room. Its door was just off the foyer and locked. Untroubled by this barrier, I passed through it; the candle in my hand flickered once, then resumed a steady flame. The tiny light revealed long unused steps leading down into overwhelming darkness.

More scuttlings from rats and dank air filled with the kind of oppression that’s born from morbid imaginings—I’d no desire to be here, but also no choice. I had to see one last thing for myself, and not give in to childish trepidations about lurking ghosts. This was a dark cellar and nothing more. The place would be no different if I had along a company of soldiers armed to the teeth. On the other hand, perhaps it would be. Not so quiet. More light. And noise. Perhaps if I whistled . . . oh . . . never mind.

No key or bolt on this side of the door, so I couldn’t open it and provide myself with an easy escape. Considering my ability to disappear at the least provocation, I was being foolish. I forced myself step-by-step down to the landing.

Nothing more threatening awaited here than old boxes and broken furniture. I threaded a path through them, holding the candle high, squinting ineffectually against the gloom until I found what seemed to be the opposite wall. Seemed. I knew it to be false.

It had been built out from the actual wall as a carefully constructed duplicate, even down to the coloring of the stones and mortar. There was no opening of any kind; she’d not found one necessary. To enter, she had but to vanish and pass through, as I did now.

Within was a silence so complete that I had to fight to retain solidity. I wanted myself
away
from this place. My mind instantly cast itself back to the hideous moments when I’d first awakened to this life and realized I was in a coffin and
buried.
There was even a strong smell of damp earth here the same as there had been then. They’d put me in my best Sunday clothes, drawn the shroud up past my head and tied it off, then nailed me into a box and lowered it into the weeping ground.

A sudden hard sob rose up, choking me.

I’d missed the service, the hymns, the prayers, the tears, the hollow impact as the first clods shoveled into the grave banged against my coffin. Asleep. I’d been oblivious in the sleep of the dead until the sun was gone and consciousness returned.

There had been nothing to
hear
at that waking.

Nothing but my own screams.

My body began to shake in remembrance of that damnable terror.

I’d wanted out, I’d had to get
out.

Nothing to see. Absolute blackness. I’d have sold my soul for even this tiny trembling flame.

Which was now beginning to fade, to diminish.

No. . ..

Getting smaller . . . dying.

If it went out now I might never return later, not with this fresh fear close atop the old ones.

I made myself watch the little drop of fire in my hand as though I could will it back to strength again.

And most remarkably, it did grow brighter.

Only then did I comprehend it was not the candle but
myself
that had faded, trying to escape from a memory, from a shadow alive only in my mind. A fool’s occupation, I impatiently thought.

Not a fool. Only a frightened man, with a perfectly reasonable fear.

So face it, laddie.
I could almost hear Father’s comforting voice in my head, gentle and at the same time practical and firm.

Would that the laugh I conjured up from within had some of his tone, but I settled for the thin noise that did come out. It struck flat against the close walls of this chamber, but the fear holding me frozen retreated somewhat. Not far, but far enough.

Able to look around, I was aware that no one else other than Nora had been here since the workmen sealed up the cracks. My shoes scraped over dust that had last been disturbed by her passage. There lay the marks of her own slippers and long swirls where her skirts had brushed.

They led to a sizable rectangular shape rising from the floor; like the remaining furnishings above, it was also protected by a dust sheet. I flipped back a portion of it, revealing a plain oaken construction some two feet high and wide and long enough to serve as a bed.

Lifting the lid, I found that the interior of the box was filled right to the top with what appeared to be small pillows made of thick canvas. They were actually bags hauntingly like those I’d had made, and like mine, were heavy with a quantity of earth.
Her
home earth. This was where she rested during the day. Not inside, of course, as there was no room, but above on the closed lid, thus sparing her clothing from the sifting from the bags. As for the chill air of this cellarage, that was nothing to us; during the day we are indifferent to such discomforts.

Now I released a sigh, thanking heaven for this happy discovery. As precious and necessary as it was to my daytime rest, I could expect her need for this portion of the grave to be identical to mine. Certainly she would have taken some with her to wherever she now lived, but if she never intended to return to this house, she’d have removed this cache along with the rest of her things. Sooner or later she
must
come back.

Unless something had happened to her.

Her goods could have been carried off and sold and this box left behind because no one knew about it. Or if anyone did, they’d placed no value on it, not bothering to knock down the wall to . . . .

Stop it.
Nora was all right. Until and unless I heard anything different, she was all right.

God, but she was the most cautious soul I’d ever met, well able to look after herself. Had she not been able to safely juggle the attentions of a dozen or more of her courtiers, taking care that none of them should harm her or each other? There had been the one exception with Tony Warburton, but she’d survived his madness. With my own rough experiences as an example, I knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to come to permanent physical harm. Sunlight was our only enemy and, of course, fire, but this chamber was ample proof of the measures she’d taken to ensure her safety should such a calamity occur. With its stone walls and a strong roof made of slate, this sanctuary was as fireproof as a tomb.

Better not to dwell on that point, Johnny-boy,
I thought with a shiver.

I replaced the lid and pulled the dust sheet back. A note, then, was necessary. I’d prepared one against this possibility and could leave it here where she was sure to find it. . . . No, perhaps not. Better she directly learn from me the results of our liaison than to infer it by my invasion of her most private chamber. I’d leave it upstairs. If she did not come here herself, then a servant would pass it along.

Please, God, let it be soon.

* * *

The outside air, for its stench of coal smoke and night soil, seemed sweet and fresh after my exploration of Nora’s empty house. The wind whipped my cloak around at street corners. It had a wet bite, promising rain, but not cold enough to sleet. The sky was clouded over, but bright to my eyes, for the most part casting a diffuse and shadowless illumination over the city. Those areas still held fast by the darkness I avoided, having already had a glut of it.

Though I’d gotten past my adverse reaction to the sealed room, I was yet a little shaken. The strength of it surprised me, but what else might I have expected? Perhaps this was a fear I needed to face down the same as I’d done at the Captain’s Kettle; however, there was absolutely no desire lurking in me to attend to it. For the moment I had other things to think about, with finding Nora being the most pressing.

Since her near neighbors appeared to have retired for the night, I could not impose myself to ask questions. That would have to wait until early evening tomorrow. Oliver might have the names of some or even know them; he had a wide circle of friends. My chief hope was that none of this would be necessary. If Oliver had located Nora since his last letter, then all would be well. And if not, then I had at least one other person to consult, though that would be attempted only with the greatest reluctance.

Again, nothing could be done until the morrow. Well, so be it, but what to do until then?

As ever in these early morning hours, I had much time for thought and little choice for anything else. I wanted conversation, but could hardly be so rude as to inflict my restlessness upon Elizabeth or Jericho. The best entertainment I could expect back at the inn was either to pass the time with some sleepy porter or delve into the stack of books I’d brought along for the voyage.

All two months’ worth.

I’d have to widen my own circle of acquaintance in this city unless I wanted to spend the greater part of my life reading. Not that the prospect of a good book was so awful, (I was quite looking forward to lengthy expeditions at the booksellers on Paternoster Row and adding to my collection) but the printed page isn’t always the best substitute for cheerful companionship.

My current choices for distraction were limited. Winter weather would have closed Vauxhall for the season; I wasn’t sure about Ranelagh. It did have that magnificent rotunda with the huge fireplace in the center for the comfort of its patrons. But it could only be reached by a ferry ride across the Thames, and I’d had a surfeit of water travel. Other, lesser gardens remained on this side, but they wouldn’t be the same without Nora.

Perhaps I could go to Covent Garden. No one slept
there
at night; they had better things to do in their beds. I felt no carnal stirrings right now, but that might change fast enough if the lady was sufficiently alluring. She’d also be much more expensive than sweet Molly Audy. It was only to be expected in so great a city, though I had coin enough and time. To Covent Garden, then, for should pleasing company not be available, then I could at least find amusement observing the antics of others.

Quickening my steps, I headed with certainty in the right direction. Years may have passed since my last visit, but there are some things one’s memory never gives up to time. On many, many occasions Oliver and I had gone there for all manner of entertainments, sometimes trying the theater or offering our admiration to any ladies willing to accept our money. My particular favorite had been arranging watery trysts at the Turkish baths, though Oliver maintained that I was running a great risk to my health with overly frequent bathing. He blamed my recklessness on the rustic influence of the wild lands where I’d been raised. I blamed my own inner preferences.

Before I’d quite gone half a mile toward my goal, I was stopped short by a commotion that literally landed at my feet. About to pass by the windows of a busy tavern, I was forced to jump back on my heels to avoid a large heavy object hurling through one of those windows.

The object proved to be a half-conscious waiter, and the unfortunate man bled from several cuts. The bloodsmell mixed with wine rolled up at me along with his pitiful groans. From inside the tavern came cries of dismay and outrage and loud, drunken laughter.

A slurred voice bawled out, “Ha, landlord, put him on the reckoning, there’s a good chap.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The jest was followed by more laughter. The man at my feet, his forehead and hands gashed, moaned and cursed. Heads appeared in the remains of the window and jeered at him for being a bloody fool. This witticism inspired more drunken hilarity, and one of them threw out the remains in his tankard, splashing both the injured man and myself.

“Damned louts!” I yelled.

“And you’re a thrice-damned foreigner,” came the return, its originator having taken exception to the simpler cut of my clothes and lack of a wig.

Two people cautiously emerged from the door of the tavern, hurried toward the fallen waiter and lifted him up and away. For their trouble, they were pelted with more drink and empty tankards, the uproar within growing each time someone struck true. Their targets hastily removed themselves, leaving me in command of the field. Not unexpectedly, I became the next target of abuse. A tankard was suddenly launched at me, but I foiled the attack by catching it as easily as I’d caught Elizabeth’s seedcake hours before. Unable to resist the temptation, I returned the missile with as much force as was in my power . . . which was considerable, if I could judge from the resulting crash and yelp.

This incensed the aggressors, and before I could also remove myself, men came boiling through the window. Too many, I thought, with vast alarm. I backed away, but several others rushed from the tavern door and cut off my escape. Hardly a second passed and they had me encircled, their swords out and leveled.

“Here’s a pretty lad who doesn’t know his manners. What say you that we give him the favor of a sweat?” Thus spoke their oversized leader, or so I assumed him to be by his height and manner with the others.

His suggestion was met with sniggering approval.

Though I’d never met them before, I knew who they were, having wisely avoided contact with their ilk on my previous visits to the capital. They were called “Mohocks,” perhaps after the Indian tribe, and I’d have preferred the company of the latter over these particular savages. They were well dressed as any of the gentry and quite probably were of that class. Their chief form of pleasure came from terrorizing the helpless citizenry with cruel bullying that ranged from passing water in public to throwing acid.

To think I’d been worried about mere footpads. At least they murdered and maimed for a reason; these beauties did it for the sake of the dirty mischief itself.

The assault planned for me identified them as devotees of “the sweat,” the purpose being to raise a warm one on their victim. If I was so rude as to present my backside to any of them, I would find it pierced by that person’s sword. Naturally, I’d be forced to jump around, allowing whoever was behind me at any given moment an opportunity to stab in turn, continuing the grim frolic.

I couldn’t expect help from the watch, as they were often the frightened victims of the Mohocks themselves, nor would the other patrons of the tavern dare interfere. Being skilled in its use, I could draw my own hidden sword for defense, but they were eight to my one. Even the great Cyrano might hesitate at such odds. Thinking the sword to be more than sufficient for defense, I’d left my Dublin revolver at the inn, else I might have been able to account for six of the worst.

All this flashed through my brain so quickly I hardly noticed its passage. As the hooting fools closed in to begin their sport, I took the single best advantage left to me . . . and vanished.

My sight was nonexistent and my hearing grossly impaired, but not so much as to deny me the pleasure of eavesdropping on their cries of shock and fear at this startling turn. I sensed their bodies milling around in confusion as they tried to sort out what had happened. They were drunk, though, which added to my entertainment. One of them suggested in awestruck tones the possibility of a ghost and got derision for his thought. I attached myself to the one who laughed the loudest.

Elizabeth had long ago informed me that when assuming this state, I produced an area of intense cold in the place where my body had been. By draping an arm, or what should have been an arm, around this fellow in a mock-friendly fashion, I was soon rewarded by his unhappy response, which was a fit of violent shivering. He complained to indifferent ears about the cold, then hurried off. I clung fast until I realized he was returning to the warmth of the tavern, then abandoned him to seek out another to bedevil.

The remaining men were searching the area, having muzzily concluded that I’d slipped away by means of some devilish conjuring trick. They called challenge and milled angrily about. I picked another man at random and followed until he was well separated from the group. Resuming solidity, I tapped him hard upon the shoulder to gain his attention. He spun, roaring out a cry to his friends as soon as he saw me. His sword was up, but I was faster and put the broad handle of my cane to good use by shoving it into his belly. His foul breath washed into my face. He doubled over, then dropped into whatever filth happened to be lying in the street. I hoped it to be of an exceptionally noxious variety.

I was not there when his friends came stumbling over.

They gave speculation as to how he’d come to be in such a condition and found it amusing. None seemed to have sympathy for their comrade’s plight, only disgust that he’d let himself be so used. The big leader was for further search, his frustration growing in proportion to the time consumed trying to find me. He became the next one upon whom I lavished my attention.

As with the first, I gave him good cause to start shaking and moaning as though with an ague. Instead of seeking shelter in the tavern, he stubbornly continued to look, filling the street with a string of curses that would give offense to a sailor. I’m no stranger to profane speech, but I have my limits. When I judged him to be well enough separated from the rest, I took solid form again. Though his clothes proclaimed him a gentleman, I had cause to disagree with the possibility and acted accordingly. Without a thought for being fair or unfair, I struck across the backs of his knees with my cane and, while he was down, followed with another sturdy blow to his sword arm.

His bellow of rage rattled windows in the next street. He dropped his sword, of course. I’d gotten him hard in the thick meat halfway between the shoulder and elbow. He lunged at me with his other arm, but I swatted that away and danced out of his reach, causing him to fall flat on his face. Perhaps I should not have been laughing, as it increased his fury, but I couldn’t help myself. Mud and worse now stained his finery, an excellent return for that splash of beer I’d gotten.

Someone suddenly laid hands on me from behind, dragging me backward and off balance. I flailed about with my stick, connected sharply once, then had to fight to keep hold of it. The half dozen remaining men were getting in one another’s way but still managed to provide me with a difficult time. I vaguely felt some blows landing on my body, and though there was no real pain, it took damned few to send me back to the safety of an incorporeal state.

If my initial disappearance surprised them, this latest act left them first dumbfounded, then panicked. Those who had held me now yelled and reeled into others. The effect was like that of rings spreading out from a stone dropped in a pond: all they wanted was to remove themselves from where I’d been.

Their leader cursed them for cowardly blockheads, but they were having none of it, calling for a return to the tavern with thin, high voices.

That seemed a good scheme to me as well. One more nudge would do it, I thought.

Rising over and behind the leader some three or four yards above the street, I willed myself to become more and more solid. I could just see them as gray figures against a gray world. As they assumed greater clarity, so did I, until I had to halt my progress or drop from my own weight. As it was, I was substantial enough to be firmly affected by the wind and had to fight to hold my place, instinctively waving my arms like a swimmer.

By their aghast expressions, I must have been a truly alarming vision. Two of them shrieked, threw up their hands and dropped right in their tracks; the rest fell away, and fled. As for the leader, just as he began to turn and look up toward the source of the disturbance, I vanished once more to leave behind a mystery that would doubtless confound them for some time to come.

I remained in the area to descend upon the big fellow because I thought he deserved it. Quaking with cold and surly from his thrashing, he demanded an accounting from the two that remained, but did not get much sense from them. They talked of a flying ghost and how I’d swooped upon them breathing fire and screeching like a demon. He called them, correctly, drunken fools and stalked away. Like dogs at heel, they clattered after him, whimpering.

Then they scattered again, frightened as old maids as I appeared out of the air in their leader’s path. His face was red now, strenuous exercise and rage being the chief contributors; he showed shock for but an instant before recovering and took a killing swing at me with his good arm. I was quick enough to duck and came up in time to land a blow to his midparts. He folded in two and dropped flat, his rump splashing squarely into a large puddle.

He was too breathless to roar, yet astonished me by stubbornly trying to rise up for another round. I was set to knock him down again, then removed myself to the safety of nothingness as he reached within his coat and pulled out a pistol. The shot cracked loud in the street, making a flat, swiftly finished echo. I went solid again to see what damage he’d done and was relieved to find that the ball had only bitten a hole in a brick building and not a person.

This fellow was too dangerous to leave awake. I darted in and this time gave him a taste of my fist on his large jaw. He dropped for good and all, sprawling gracelessly in the vast puddle. With any luck he wouldn’t remember a thing. I picked up the pistol, noting it was a dueler of inferior quality. Had it been better made I might have kept it as a prize, but the thing was not worth the effort to clean. I smashed it hard against the cobbles, cracking the stone but wholly ruining the pistol for future use.

Lantern light. Voices. Shouts. The shot had drawn attention.

His remaining cronies rallied at the tavern and started to venture forth, calling for their fallen leader. Oh, my, they were all armed, bringing clubs, swords, and pistols to the pending battle. It promised to match Bosworth Field in savagery.

Time to abandon the game. I’d done enough damage for one evening and had tired of their demeaning company. Let them find the wounded and get an obliging leach to tend him. I surrendered my now amorphous form to the wind and drifted away from the asses.

Doubtless they would comfort themselves with more drink and vent their displeasure upon some luckless person, but not for this night at least and perhaps a few more as well. When I judged myself clear, I cautiously came back into the world, the caution derived from a wish to avoid frightening some undeserving soul into hysterics by my
sudden appearance from nowhere.

The street was empty of observers, unless I desired to count a pack of mongrel dogs. They were startled, but after a few warning barks, slipped off on their own business. A pity the Mohocks hadn’t done the same, though I was feeling strangely cheered about the whole business. I’d bested eight of them, by God; what man wouldn’t relish the triumph? My sudden boom of laughter echoed off the buildings and set the dogs to barking again. A not-too-distant voice called for me to keep the peace or face the wrath of the local watchman. An empty threat, but I was in a sufficiently genial mood to be forgiving and subside.

I wondered at my good spirits, for except for finding Nora’s cache of earth, this had been a singularly fruitless outing.

The loss of those two months still disturbed me mightily. Not only had I lost time, but control of myself, the latter causing the greater distress. Could I expect another such lapse to strike out of the blue, or only need worry when I was over water? I could hope Nora would provide an answer.

If she would just have the goodness to show herself.

But however unpleasant it had been, my success against those English vandals had lightened my mood.

Putting my clothes back into order, I made sure my money was intact and the tinderbox and snuff box were still in place. Fortunately my attackers had not been pickpockets, but perhaps that questionable talent was beyond their limited skills. And just as well, for had it been necessary to reclaim my property, I’d no doubt that my return would have been greeted with much adverse excitement.

London life certainly presented its dangers, but this time I was well pleased with the outcome, though my clothes had suffered. I’d picked up a share of mud stains and reeked of beer. Jericho would have a few words to say, and Elizabeth would probably admonish me against further nocturnal rambles. Excellent advice, that. Probably best that I spare her from any recounting of my adventure. However victorious I’d been, she’d not see it quite the same way. Men and women have different views on certain matters and this was one of them.