Descent Into Dust (22 page)
“Is it a vampire, an ancient and powerful one?”
“I do not completely understand the nature of it myself. In the siege, when Cromwell laid waste to the Catholic presence in this land, much was lost. We managed to hold on to the church.”
“You lost the house,” I put in. “Dulwich Manor. It must have been part of this ‘outpost’ originally. The bishop had Latin sayings carved into the wood. They are about this danger, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “When Cromwell’s armies came, they took the house and all of the lands. A local man who was influential with the Roundheads impressed upon the invaders to leave the church be. He was persuasive, and ultimately successful. That was why the outpost was not disturbed and left to Rome in the midst of their purge. No doubt copious amounts of money changed hands to accomplish this. More important, during this time, the hawthorn tree survived, thanks to the Lord’s blessing.”
“Why is it so important?” I implored. “What is it?”
“A prison. Its tenant is something unspeakably evil. As I said, I know little, although I will refer you to the Old Testament story in the book of Tobit, for this is how it was explained to me. In this book, God sends the archangel Raphael to protect Tobit’s son from the demon Asmodeus.” He smiled wryly. “Raphael used incense made from a gutted fish to entrance the demon and lure him into a tree, where he imprisoned him. So, you recognize this is akin to what has happened here in Ave
bury. Thus, the apotrope on the seal, which you noticed, Mrs. Andrews. The same one on my ring.” He glanced down at the gold band with the engraving of the fish.
“It was shattered,” I said. “I found it in pieces.”
“Yes. The seal had been broken. That was how I knew that I, of all my predecessors, would be the one called to execute the duty for which generations of priests have been trained. If this being on The Sanctuary is what Marius has come for, he shall be stopped. I have been well trained for this.”
“With what, prayer?” Fox became impassioned. “I do not care to merely stop him. I’ve come here to destroy him.” There was a rather desperate quality to his tone. Poor Mr. Fox, I thought drowsily. The vampire Marius—or Emil, or whoever—took something from him. Something he cared for very deeply, it was obvious to see. Perhaps it was a woman. A wife, a love…I was startled by the sudden jealousy I felt.
“You must leave it to me,” Father Luke said quietly.
“We can help you,” Fox urged. “And you must help us.”
The priest bowed his head. “You have to understand, sir, that I took a most sacred vow. Do you understand? I am a priest, and I am well equipped to handle the events facing me, despite what you believe.”
“People are dying, man!” Fox exploded.
Father Luke nodded. “I am painfully aware of that. And I am not unsympathetic, believe me. I have some items that can aid and protect you in your own struggle with Marius.” He cast me a smile without rancor. “You might require more than one crucifix and a small vial of blessed water.” He stood. “I have some relics, items of religious significance that have been blessed by truly holy men. They have certain power, for only goodness can fight what you must face.”
“Goodness,” Fox repeated, rising to meet him. Father Luke was taller, Mr. Fox leaner, and yet the two men looked a pair. Not friends. Not enemies, either.
“Goodness is exactly the issue, sir,” Father Luke explained. “What benefit will water blessed by a corrupt priest have you? The blessing must be done by a man right in the eyes of God. Not a perfect man, mind you. We would be ill fated if that were required, for those are in short supply.” His smile was meant to be wry. It appeared grim.
“Then you are saying not all holy water is effective?” I asked.
“Nothing done outside of the state of grace is effective. Consider a host consecrated by a priest whose faith is faltering. Or any sacrament performed while the priest is engaged in some sin of deceit, or perverted lust, or greed.”
Fox’s expression was fierce as he comprehended. “Indeed. So that is why my weapons have sometimes failed me. It has seemed there was no sense in the way two crosses will repel differently, or whether holy water will scorch corrupt flesh.”
Father Luke nodded. “Come with me, then, and see what I have for you. You may join us if you like, Mrs. Andrews.”
I declined, and after they had left, I bolted out of my chair. Alone, I sought to rid myself of the memory of Marius. It sat like curdled blood in my veins. The wine I had drunk caught my balance in a vortex. I steadied my hand on a table and bent my head, waiting for the wave of sickness to pass. I wanted nothing more than to curl into a tight ball and weep until I was clean again. It would be a relief to seek my sister’s side and apply my time to needlepoint and sewing baby clothes, to redeem myself, live at last in the friendship and peace I’d always desired.
Yet I had only to think of Henrietta, and my thoughts changed. Cowardice receded sharply, and I felt like an empty
vessel, devoid of all but the determination written into my bones to protect her. It was not bravery or heroism; it was love, simply that, and it did not banish my fear and disgust and dread. It merely made them irrelevant.
I stood and began to pace a tight circle as I gathered my courage back to its sticking place, as it were. On a table by the door, I noticed a carved stone Celtic cross that seemed a bit pagan for this setting. From one arm dangled a black ribbon from which a gold badge hung. Carved on the face was the scene from the church painting, that of a winged angel standing upon a serpent. Saint Michael the Archangel, the patron of this church and the power meridian which it guards.
I peered at the serpent, trying to see if it were a dragon, as in the painting I’d seen in the church. It was difficult to say but I rather thought the heroic figure standing victorious over his foe appeared more Saint George than angelic. Mr. Hess had mentioned the Feast of Saint George as being significant in the seasons of good and evil. It never occurred to me how closely these two were linked—Saint George and Saint Michael. They could have been variants of the same legend.
I cradled the gold disk in my hand. It was heavy. It must be worth a great deal of money. On the back, I found the fish symbol, along with the words “Knights of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing.”
As soon as the men returned—with Mr. Fox’s bag held tightly against his side, filled, I assumed, with his boon—I pled the urgent desire to return to the manor. My wish was granted. I fancied Mr. Fox’s grip was gentle, almost caressing, as he helped me to my mount. We rode home without any conversation, but as we were bidding our farewells to one another, he took my hands in his.
“I have not forgotten my promise. We shall talk tomorrow, and I will answer any question you might pose.”
I was contented to wait. I needed to sleep, for the weariness went deeper than bodily fatigue. I was exhausted to the deepest corner of my soul. The defiling stench of Marius’s touch—not so much to my flesh as my brittle, aching will—was still with me, and it remained with me as I plunged hard into troubled sleep.
After an interminable morning and a never-ending game of Pope Joan, in which even purposefully losing to Alyssa won me no favor, I was on pins and needles to speak to Mr. Fox. Mary, however, had a mind to have a word with me. While I was exiting the water closet, she pulled me aside.
She had noted my friendship with Mr. Fox, it seemed. “He is a single man, after all,” she observed speculatively.
“We are both sorely disturbed by the death of Mr. Hess,” I told her carefully.
“Is that all?” Her eyebrows inched up her forehead in an obvious innuendo.
“Mary! I am just out of mourning. We are friends only.”
“Well, I am glad to hear it. He is not completely suitable, you know. I thought at first he might be interesting, but he never seems to warm to the company. And it is not a good time for…well, anything more than friendship. Alyssa would be most put out if you were occupied with a romance. You must make a point to spend more time with her.”
My stretched nerves snapped. “Sometimes it seems as if my family would be happy if I would think of nothing but Alyssa and her whims and her preferences and her moods. I am sorry if my friendship with Mr. Fox troubles you, but there is no harm in it.”
“Emma,” she said, seeming contrite, “I am not attempting to play favorites. It is just…her condition.”
“When you were increasing with Henrietta, did you teeter on the brink of severe illness should a frown crease your brow? This is nothing short of tyranny, Mary.”
She took a bracing breath. I saw she sincerely meant to offer help. “I do not wish to intrude on what was surely a private conversation, but Alyssa told me you and she had had something of a confession. Your neglect is particularly hurtful after such a deeply felt discussion. She feels ignored.”
“I have not ignored her. I…” But I had. With good reason, but who would know this?
Mary took up when I could not finish. “It is not only Alyssa. Yes, as a widow, you are not subject to the same social prescriptions as an unmarried woman. But, Emma, you cannot comport yourself as you have been with Mr. Fox. I do not like the amount of time you are spending in his company. You two seem secretive.”
“That is ridiculous,” I defended, although I could not quite summon the indignation I needed, for she was quite right.
She frowned at me. “He is so very…odd.”
“Well, I am odd, too. Or so I’ve been told often enough.”
“Oh, Emma.”
We left on poor terms, and I cannot say I was unaffected by this. Despite the larger concerns awaiting my attention, I still cared deeply for the growing rift between myself and my relatives.
It was not until after luncheon that Mr. Fox and I were able to speak. We went to the garden, which was cast under a canopy of gunmetal-gray clouds. Cold rain spit down from these, driving us under the shelter of the folly. We remained in full view of
the house—a measure of convention I took from my conversation with Mary.
“Now you will tell me,” I said to him. “What is it you know of my mother?”
I had not spoken harshly, nor pleadingly, but calmly. He regarded me with equal placidness, neither one of us blinking.
“I know nothing of your mother—” he began.
I ignored the dismay that stabbed through me. “Then why did you ask so specifically about her?”
“I suspect…” His face collapsed, and I saw he was not being evasive at all. It truly pained him to speak. “Mrs. Andrews, please understand. It gives me no peace to say this to you.”
I felt the quickening of panic, but I drove on in spite of it. “You called me ‘Dhampir.’ That beastly gypsy—he called me that, too. What is it?” At the way he flinched, I exclaimed, “Mr. Fox!”
“It is a term from Romania.”
“What does it mean?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared directly into mine. “It means ‘little vampire’ when translated literally.”
There is something of the vampire in you.
I made a small sound, a strangled cry.
Fox pressed on. “It is supposed that a Dhampir is the child of
strigoi vii
. The Dhampir is a legendary hunter of undead and cursed beings. It can see and sense them, and possesses instincts to defeat them.”
I absorbed this, frozen, numb. Dhampir. Wadim’s voice came to me:
Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.
“It means,” Fox said gently, “that you are a child of
strigoi vii
.”
The living vampire. I trembled violently as I backed away
from him, rage and terror coursing through me like a black tide. “No. She was not like Wadim. She was not evil. She was ill, that was all. She—”
“Emma,” he said, starting forward.
My hand lashed out before I knew it would, landing hard on his cheek. His head snapped back. The sound of that slap was like an explosion.
He hadn’t been expecting it. Neither had I, but the violence felt good. It felt clean and natural, purely human, and I was glad I’d done it. I hated him at that moment. I hated everything dirty and hateful that he’d just said.
I fled back to the house. The sensation of being unclean sent me to the chamber pot in my room. I retched until I was weak and shaking, lying on the floor until the maid came in and found me. She went for her mistress before I could stop her.
When Mary came in, she put me to bed. I let her. She called in Roger, and they whispered together. Of course, they were fearful of the wasting disease. The dreaded wasting disease…
I lay in my bed, Mr. Fox’s words echoing inside my head. The
strigoi vii
, the living vampire, is passed by death into existence as the
strigoi mort
. Undead.
My mother was a vampire.
I
opened my eyes the following morning and my first thought came like a falling stone: I am a vampire hunter.
My body moved stiffly, laden with all I’d been through the previous day, but I pushed past it. There was something I had to do. My determination was bitter and resolute, so much so that when Mary saw me at the breakfast table, she misread my mood.
“Are you cross with me about our talk?” she inquired privately.
“No,” I said. “I will be going into the village this afternoon. Would it be all right if I used the carriage?”
She gave me a look. “Certainly. But I was hoping you and I could persuade Alyssa to join us for a stroll. Exercise is good
for her, and maybe it will turn things around between the two of you.”
“I cannot,” I said. I shoveled food into my mouth without tasting it.
Mary stared at me. “Emma, you seem strange.”
The absurdity of this observation made me smile. I could have laughed, but if I’d started I had no doubt I’d land myself in an asylum, for the laughter inside me was wild, frenetic. I seemed strange, did I? Well, I was strange. I was Dhampir, and if that wasn’t the strangest thing imaginable, I did not know what was.
“I am sorry,” I managed. “I have something pressing. Please forgive me.” I tossed my napkin on my plate and rose. I went directly to the stables to request the carriage be brought out. The wait was short and I was soon on my way.