The Vampyre (19 page)

‘I stayed beneath the olive tree all day,' he said at last. ‘The strange powers I remembered from the night seemed dulled in the sun - only hatred for my creator blazed as undimmed as before, while noon, and then afternoon, slowly passed. The Pasha had escaped me before, but now, a creature like him, I understood what would have to be done. I laid my hand across my chest. My heart, beating slowly, felt heavy with blood. I longed to feel the Pasha's own heart between my fingers, to pinch it slowly until it burst. I wondered about Haidée, and the punishment that her master had whispered about. Would it leave her alive? - leave her for me? And then I remembered again what I had been made into, and I felt a sick despair, and my loathing for the Pasha redoubled itself. Oh, how I welcomed my hatred, how I cherished it - my only pleasure that whole long first day.

‘The sun began to set, and the western peaks seemed touched with blood. I found my senses returning to me. Once again, the air grew rich with the scents of life. The twilight gathered - and the darker it became, the more I could see. Out on the lake, I noticed fishing boats. One of them in particular caught my eye. It was being rowed out into the centre of the lake; it anchored there; two men raised a weight in a sack, and threw it overboard. I watched as the ripples spread out and died, and then the lake was as glassy as before. The waters were crimson now, and staring at them, I felt my longing for blood reborn. I left the shelter of the olive tree. The darkness was like skin against my own. It filled me with strange desires, and feelings of power.

‘I reached the cave where the Pasha had taken me. There was no sign of him, nor of anyone else. I found my clothes scattered as I had left them - I pulled them on. Only my cloak was ruined - torn and stiff with blood - so I searched for Haidée's instead, and found it discarded at the back of the cave. I remembered how she had dropped it the night before. I wrapped myself in it, and sat in the cave's mouth. I stared at its black folds, falling around me, and buried my head in my hands with despair.

‘“My Lord!”

‘I looked up. It was Viscillie. He was running through the olive grove up towards me. “My Lord!” he called out again. “My Lord, I had thought you were dead!” Then he looked into my face. He stammered something; he froze where he was. Slowly, he looked up again. “My Lord,” he whispered, “tonight . . .”

‘I raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

‘“Tonight, My Lord - you can have your revenge.” He paused. I nodded. Viscillie fell to his knees. “It is our one chance,” he explained in a hurried voice. “The Pasha is journeying through the mountains. If you don't delay, we can capture him.” He swallowed and fell silent again. How curiously delicate he smelled - I had never noticed it before. I studied him, and watched how his brown face turned pale.

‘I rose to my feet. “Haidée - where is she?”

‘Viscillie bowed his head. Then he turned and beckoned someone, and I smelled another man's blood. “This is Elmas,” said Viscillie, gesturing at a ruffian as massive as himself. “Elmas - tell the Lord Byron what you saw.”

‘Elmas looked up into my face, and I saw him frown, then blanch just as Viscillie had done.

‘“Tell me,” I whispered.

‘“My Lord, I was by the lake . . .” He looked up at me again, and his voice trailed away.

‘“Yes?” I said softly.

‘“My Lord, I saw a boat. In it were two men. They had a sack. Inside the sack was . . .”

‘I lifted my hand. Elmas fell silent. Blankness passed before my eyes. I had known already, of course, when I saw the boat myself, but I hadn't then been willing to acknowledge it, not the hidden meaning of that scene. I fingered the edge of Haidée's cloak. When I spoke, my voice was like the splintering of ice in my ears. “Viscillie,” I asked, “where does the Pasha ride tonight?”

‘“Through the mountain passes, My Lord.”

‘“We have men?”

‘Viscillie bowed his head. “From my village, My Lord.”

‘“I need a horse.”

‘Viscillie smiled. “You will be given one, My Lord.”

‘“We ride at once.”

‘“At once, My Lord.”

‘And so we did. The crags and ravines echoed to our speed. Iron hooves clattered over the rocks; foam streaked the sides of my raven horse. We reached the pass. In a gully above it, I wheeled and paused, standing in my stirrups to gaze into the distance, trying to smell my foes drawing near. I looked up at the sky - still red, blood-red, but deepening into black. Winters of memory rolled over me; in that drop of time, I seemed to glimpse my own eternity. I felt a dread, and then hatred settled in its place. “They are coming,” I said. Viscillie looked. He could see nothing, but he nodded and gave the words of command. “Kill them all,” I said. “All.” I grasped my sword and drew it, so that its steel flushed red with the light of the sky. “The Pasha, though,” I whispered, “he is mine.”

‘We heard the clash of men on horseback coming down the ravine. Viscillie grinned; he nodded to me and raised his arquebus. Then I saw them - the squadron of Tartar cavalry, and at their head, his pale face gleaming amongst the shadows of the rocks, the monster, my creator. I tightened my grip round the hilt of my sword. Viscillie glanced at me; I held my sword poised; I lowered it. Viscillie fired, and the foremost Tartar bit the ground. Vakhel Pasha looked up - no expression of fear or surprise crossed his face. But all around him, as gunfire crackled out, there was chaos; some men sheltered behind their horses and tried to answer back; others fled into the rocks, where they were finished off by the knife. I felt the lust for blood on me. I spurred my horse forwards, so that I stood silhouetted against the western sky. All across the ravine, there was a sudden fall into silence. I stared at the Pasha; he met my look impassively. But from one of his horsemen there was a sudden wail. “It's him, it's him! See how pale he is, it's him!” I smiled; I spurred my horse down; with the shrieks of Viscillie's men in my ears, I rode into the pass.

‘It was littered with corpses now, as men fought hand to hand. Alone amongst the carnage, the Pasha sat and waited on his horse untouched. I rode to face him. Only then, slowly, did he smile. “Welcome to eternity,
milord
,” he whispered.

‘I shook my head. “Haidée - where is she?”

‘The Pasha stared at me, startled, then he threw back his head and laughed. “You can truly be bothered with her?” he asked. He reached out to touch me. I flinched back. “You have so much to learn,” said the Pasha softly. “But I will teach you. We shall be together, for all time, and I will teach you.” He held out his hand. “Come with me,
milord
.” He smiled. He beckoned with his hand. “Come with me.”

‘For a moment, I sat frozen. Then my sword swung down. I felt it bite through the bone of the Pasha's wrist. The hand, still seeming to beckon, arced upwards, then dropped into the dust. The Pasha stared at me in horror, but he seemed to feel no physical pain, and this infuriated me all the more. I swung at him blindly. My sword rose and fell, cutting deep, until the Pasha slumped from his horse's back. He stared up at me. “You are going to kill me,” he said. A look of puzzlement and disbelief crossed his face. “So soon. You are truly going to do it.” I stepped down from my horse, and placed the sword's point above his heart.

‘“This time,” I whispered, “I will not miss.”

‘“No!” the Pasha screamed suddenly. He struggled with the sword, his single hand cutting itself as he tried to push away the blade's edge.

‘“Goodbye, Your Excellency,” I said. I pushed the sword down. I felt it puncture the soft sack of his heart.

‘The Pasha shrieked. Not a human cry, but a terrible unearthly wail of pain and hate. It echoed through the pass, across the ravines, and everything was stilled by it. A fountain of blood spouted up into the sky, bright scarlet against the deeper reds of the horizon, and then it began to pour down upon my head, like rain from a bloated crimson cloud. It fell as softly as a blessing, and I raised my face to welcome it. The shower ended at last, and when I moved, I realised that my skin beneath my clothes was wet with blood. I looked down at the Pasha. He lay in the stiffness of his death agony. I reached for dust, and scattered it over his face. “Bury him,” I said. “Bury him, so that he never walks again.” I found Viscillie, and told him I would wait for him in Missolonghi. Then I mounted my horse and without looking round, left the pass, that place of death.

‘I rode through the night. I felt no tiredness, only the most extraordinary desire for experience. The shower of blood had cooled my thirst, while my powers, my senses, my sensations, all seemed heightened to an extraordinary degree. I reached Missolonghi at dawn. The light gave me no pain now. Instead, the colours, the interplay of the sky and the sea, the beauty of the sun's first rays - all ravished me. Missolonghi was not a beautiful place, just a straggling town perched on the marshes' edge, but to me it seemed the most wondrous place I had ever been. As I cantered across the mud-flats, staring in amazement at the streaks of colour to the east, it was as though I had never seen a dawn before.

‘I entered Missolonghi and found the tavern where Hobhouse and I had agreed to meet. The tavern keeper, after I had knocked him up, stared at me with horror - I was wild-eyed, and my clothes, of course, were still caked with blood. I ordered fresh linen, and hot water, and the pleasure of my freshness, once I had washed and redressed, was again like nothing I had ever known. I clattered up to Hobhouse's room. I picked up a pillow and threw it at him. “Hobby, get up, it's me. I'm back.”

‘Hobhouse opened a bleary eye. “Damn it,” he said. “So you are.” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Well, old fellow, what have you been up to?” He smiled. “Nothing interesting at all, I suppose?”'

LORD BYRON'S GRANDSON,
Astarte

W
hat did you tell him, then?' Rebecca asked.

Lord Byron looked up at her. He had been staring into the darkness, a half-smile playing on the edge of his lips. He frowned. ‘Tell?' he asked.

‘Hobhouse - did you tell him the truth?'

‘The truth?' Lord Byron laughed. ‘What was the truth?'

‘About your transformation.'

‘Into a vampire?' Lord Byron laughed again, and shook his head. ‘Hobhouse had caught the sun, you know, while he'd been away from me. He'd always been red-faced, but now he was puce. Then, that evening, he had indigestion as well. Spent the whole night glowing in the dark, groaning and farting. And Hobby was never the most credulous of people, not at the best of times. So no, Miss Carville, I did not tell him - the man was practically afloat on his own wind. Not the moment to make a dramatic revelation.'

‘But even so, he must have guessed.'

‘Yes, that something had happened, of course. But what exactly? - I wasn't sure of that myself. Hobhouse was so damned
alive
, you see.' Lord Byron smiled, and for a brief second, something like fondness seemed to warm his eyes. ‘No - a couple of hours with Hobby, grumbling and scratching and complaining about his wind, and it was hard to believe in vampires at all. Even harder, of course, to believe that I could have become one myself. I began to doubt everything that had happened to me - wonder if I hadn't dreamed the whole thing - except that all the time, quite indisputably, there was the numbness in my heart, the numbness of an aching sense of loss. I was alone, and Haidée was not with me; I was alone, and Haidée was murdered, drowned beneath the waters of Lake Trihonida. And something -
something
-
had happened to me -
something strange - for my senses, as I've told you, no longer seemed my own, but like some spirit's, some angel's, so that I could feel things which mortals have never felt. Just the breath of air on my face, the merest whisper, and sensations would flood me, passions of extraordinary beauty and strength. Or I would stroke the skin of my arm - hear the scraping of a chair - smell the wax of a candle, stare for hours at its flame - tiny things, but they ravished me - yes - gave me a pleasure that was . . .' - he paused, then shook his head - ‘indescribable. ' He smiled again, and stroked his forearm, reliving the memories. ‘Everything seemed changed,' he whispered softly, ‘changed utterly. And so I wondered what had happened - to the world - or to me - to give birth to such a state of mystery.'

Rebecca stared into his face, so pale, and beautiful, and melancholy. ‘But you knew,' she said.

Lord Byron slowly shook his head.

‘But - you must have known.' Instinctively, Rebecca reached for her neck, to stroke the puncture marks. ‘How could you not have done?' She realised that Lord Byron was staring at her scars, his eyes as brilliant and cold as jewels, and she lowered her arm. ‘The blood lust,' she asked quietly. ‘I don't understand. What had happened to it?'

‘I didn't feel it,' said Lord Byron after a pause.

‘But you'd felt it before - on the mountains - you said you did.'

Lord Byron nodded imperceptibly. ‘But it was that,' he said softly, ‘which I came to believe had been a fantasy. I would smell the life all around me, in humans, creatures, even the flowers - yes, and be intoxicated - but still have no hunger. Once, riding by the Gulf of Lepanto, I saw an eaglet flying above us, and I felt the rush of desire then - the mountains on one side of us, the still waters on the other, and this beautiful living thing between. I felt the aching lust for blood - not for its own sake, though, but because I too wanted to soar and be free like the bird - because I wanted it to be a part of me, I suppose. I had a gun with me. I shot the eaglet, and watched it drop. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it, its eye was so bright; but it pined, and died in a few days; and I felt a terrible sickness at what I had done. It was the first creature I had killed since the death of the Pasha; and since then, I have never attempted - and hope I never will attempt - the killing of another animal or bird.'