7
I did not sleep the rest of the night. I was miserable to think of Carina shut up in the sarcophagus, yet I knew my feelings were unproductive. Compelled to search through my collection, I found the hemp-paged copy of
The Breath of Life.
A manuscript I had only skimmed through before, I spent the remainder of hours until dawn digesting it.
The book was only one of five known existing copies of the personal and quite priceless diary of the sorcerer-priest Catullus of Aricia, written before his death by assassins of Constantine the First. Those historians who were acquainted with the rare manuscript discounted it as the delusional testimony of a half-mad pagan fanatic, but the few educated minds who had actually read it without religious bias considered Catullus’s notes some of the most practical and easily understandable manuals of demonology ever recorded. In the past, my personal infatuation with ostentatious ritual had allowed little credence for the importance of such an unelaborated work. Something within me had changed; for once, I had no consideration for what aesthetic ambience I came away with. All that mattered was finding the information that I sensed was to be found within the diary’s pages.
Later, after morning had come, I at last put the diary away. I went to the schoolhouse and opened class. My thoughts were on the ritual that awaited me to finish and of all my eyes had drank in the night before. My teaching duties did not interfere with the fidelity to my cause; I performed with mechanical, yet flawless, self-possession. This worked, so that even when the whispering little discussion between two of my pupils escalated into impertinent disruption, I reacted but was undaunted.
The familiar, comfortable strictness that I had feared to exert over the past few weeks came back to me. In my most implacable voice, I ordered the women—Rosemar, and her daughter, Gildemar—to their feet. They obeyed with giggling apologies that only confirmed my suspicion that unless the situation was handled with a firm hand, I would soon lose all respect in my own classroom.
Without a second thought, I ordered them to lift the hems of their frocks to their hips. The daughter’s mouth fell open, and her mother crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow to deliver me a most disproving look. It was this matronly haughtiness that had to be humbled first. Snatching up my crop, I strode toward Rosemar so swiftly that she jumped.
“Dare you, sir!”
“Madam, you will remain silent or I shall send for your good husband straightaway.”
Her pretty mouth puckered angrily, but there was a frightful blush in her cheeks.
“There shall be no more impertinence demonstrated in this classroom, madam. Now, you two shall lift your frocks, bend over your chairs, and hold firmly to the seats.”
I caught the terrified glance exchanged between mother and daughter, but solemnly they complied, lifting their frocks ever so fastidiously. Each wore a pair of white silk underpants with scalloped lace hems. Sublime complement of sensuality and innocence were these delicate garments. As they turned and bent over their seats, a couple of gasps elicited from the rest of the class. I ignored it, poised myself behind Rosemar, and laid a steadying hand over the small of her back. As I raised the crop over her backside she let out a low, agitated groan and her shapely buttocks clenched in expectation beneath the silk undergarment. At the first thrash of my crop she shrieked loudly, but the following strokes I dealt so rapidly she hardly had time to gasp between them. Fifteen sound strokes I dealt her, and warning her not to move from her properly humbled position, I proceeded to the daughter. Gildemar received the same number of thrashes, but I allowed her to lower her frock when the punishment ended. Only Rosemar, I deemed, needed further chastening, not only for her challenging behavior of before, but to set an example to the rest of the class. Thus was the daughter allowed to sit back in her seat with a discomforted pout to keep her company while her mother remained bowed over her chair. I returned to the lesson they had interrupted, at ease for the first time within my sphere. And though I spied an occasional teardrop fall from Rosemar’s face to her seat, not a single peep or whisper did I hear from any of my pupils for the remainder of the day.
8
Irmhild was standing under one of the apple trees outside as I left the schoolhouse that afternoon. A small wicker basket lay at her feet, and the green cloth inside prevented me from seeing whatever she carried in it. Her hands were behind her back as I greeted her, and the staunch timbre of her voice was a little more subdued than I recalled.
“You have the look of the famished,” she said.
I smiled humorlessly, though it was a comfort to see her.
“The hunger has passed. And though my perceptions are clearer than ever in my life, it seems I do not think, but rather functionally go about my routine.”
Her eyes glinted. “And never have you been more assured in your actions, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you have slept, at least a little.”
I nodded. It was an embroidered gesture, but it seemed kinder than offering a comment that could inadvertently bring up the wrenching scene I had come across the night before. Irmhild smiled blandly. She had the faraway look of one contemplating some old inner turmoil as she peered about the lush violet-sprinkled grass.
“The gods seed paradise by men’s actions,” she spoke absently, “and harvest it through the desires of women.”
At my silence, Irmhild sighed, and brought her arms forward and took my hand. Turning it over, she laid in my palm a wide band of cast iron. It was pliable, but only enough for the task for which Irmhild had brought it. The very feel of it made me eager to return home and finish the rite before nightfall.
“This is the last thing I may provide you. It will bring Carina out of darkness, but only your knowledge can keep her out of the shadows and exorcize the evil from whence it comes.”
I stared at the metal in my palm: a fragile piece of simple iron, yet it seemed at the moment weightier than gold.
She touched my chin with her warm fingertips, and again I was struck by the resemblance between her and Carina.
“I have kept Carina’s fate secret thus far. But if you fail, or if you fall into their hands, I must speak to the council. Carina must not suffer any longer. And if Griselda possesses you, likewise she possesses your knowledge. Then shall she be empowered with the means to leave her haven and resume her pillage of mortality, and worst, be immune from our wards and rites that have thus far limited her power.”
The breeze tousled her long white hair, and her wrinkles seemed more pronounced as I regarded her. “I have wronged Carina by my zeal to see the vampires destroyed once and for all. Do not insult her injury by jeopardizing yourself, Marcel. Save her if you can, but do not confront Griselda. Promise me this.”
I felt her mind touch my thoughts. These thoughts, bastioned by keen and sobered intent, allowed only the reassurance she sought. Smiling, I took her hand and kissed it. A wilted touch of rose shaded her cheeks.
“It is my mistake that led Carina to resign hope, not yours,” I said. “And I intend to do nothing more now than to recapture and protect her.”
She seemed content with this, and stooping, handed me the basket.
“After your work is finished, eat,” she instructed. “Weistreim is the baker’s apprentice and made this himself from the old recipe.”
Without waiting for a reply, Irmhild turned and started up the street toward her home. Her shoulders were rounded and her gait wearily patient. My gut twisted with outrage to know the cause of her weariness. But smartly, I subdued the emotion, useless for the time, and tucked the items she had brought beside whatever was covered in the basket. Then I tidied up the classroom and hurried off.
I did not return immediately to my cabin. Carina’s unexpected entombment obliged certain extra measures on my part than for which I was willing to admit to her grandmother. I made a trip to the blacksmith’s shop and asked to see the sturdiest iron rod available. The man showed me an assortment of simple rods that could be used as base material for other tools. Nothing, however, sturdy enough to pry open the sarcophagus. Then I noticed a rusted poker standing by the fireplace. A weighty-looking object, it stood at least to my shoulders—too large an item for an ordinary household. Interested, I inquired of it.
“Came by it from one of the duke’s donation fairs,” the man explained, “or as they are known here, his housecleaning fairs.” The blacksmith’s eyes widened as he regarded the thing. “I would not wish to have to maintain the hearth for which that thing is required, would you?”
I went and examined it carefully. The rust flaked away easily, and I saw that the poker was only iron plated. The core was steel.
“How much would you take for it?”
He looked flustered and thoughtful at once. At last he replied with an earnest nod, “Promise to come to the wedding when I marry little Gretchen next month and it is yours, schoolmaster.”
The name brought the image of one my pupils to mind.
“Gretchen, the carpenter’s daughter?”
He nodded, and the corners of his mouth turned up proudly. “The very one. And I promise, once we are married, she will be on time to class every morning.”
I laughed gently, and a few minutes later I left the shop with the poker posed over my shoulder. It was cumbersome, but I managed to carry it and the basket back home. Inside, I stood the poker against the frame of the door, which I then locked. I placed the basket on my nightstand, then undressed and performed the ritual bath anew.
Clean and still naked, I approached the cauldron over its steady flame, repeated the incantation, and performed the proper number of stirs. A deep bowl of water I set upon the hearth, and with tongs from the pantry shelf, I lowered the iron band into the bubbling gold ooze. Releasing it for several moments to swirl in the mixture, I closed my eyes and imagined the culmination of my desires. Then with the tongs I lifted the band out and submerged it into the water. The water hissed for a couple of minutes, and when I was satisfied, I again grasped the band with the tongs. This fashioned collar I laid over a clean linen on the desk.
While it dried, I fetched a tiny wooden container from amongst the items brought from Irmhild’s abode. This I set beside the wisps of Carina’s hair on the nightstand by the bed. When the collar was dry and satisfactorily cooled, I took it to the bed and sat down cross-legged on the mattress. I turned it in my hands and admired for a time the gleam the gold retained despite the other ingredients that had gone into its mixture. The entire collar tingled against my flesh, like honey when held in one’s mouth. Laying it beside me on the mattress, I glanced at the poker beside the door once again. Then I lay down with my head upon the pillow. It wasn’t even close to evening as I closed my eyes. I thought of Carina, of course, but the time to indulge fantasies was over. Yet, I knew that the realization of them was not an egg I could wisely count yet. I smiled at my own growing superstitions. My focus and resolve were primed to an almost hypnotic sharpness and cleansed entirely of interfering mortal doubt or hesitation. I envisioned what was to come later that night, a thing unfamiliar, yet my mind had rehearsed it so well that my envisioned steps touched me as familiar. I recited to myself the incantations learned throughout the years that would make me invisible to the vampire’s eyes when I returned to the monastery. I repeated the words Irmhild had taught, words of power that would bless my wielding of the magical hammer. And I rehearsed the banishments she had shared, those that would break any spell Griselda had placed upon Carina to compel her to fight against salvation.
But as I allowed myself to drift off into a half sleep, it was a rite from the Catullus writings that illuminated before my mind’s eye. A certain exorcism that had fascinated me the night before, one fashioned not of ceremony and detached determination, but of primordial emotion. A process as uncivilized as the demonic spirits that it was intended to eliminate. I was not certain of why my mind needed reiteration on this rite, but soon I lost all sense of everything but for the sound of my unspoken voice repeating it.
A dozen times, fifty times, maybe a hundred I recited it. The words resonated through every visceral particle and spiritual vestige of my being. I was swept away into the invocation, so utterly was I aware of nothing afoot in the house until an iced blade touched my forehead.
I gasped at once and opened my eyes to find what I had felt was not metal or ice, but the nails of fingers caressing me.
It was Carina. She wore a coarse blue-dyed gown with heavy, bell sleeves. Only a peep of white cleavage could I see, but her skin was aglow with the radiance of health and life. She gifted me with that smile I had so missed as she bent down and imparted a kiss to my mouth. A freshly plucked rosebud, still cool from the morning frost, were her lips. They trembled with the promise of delights fulfilled.
My drowsy mind was rapidly becoming inebriated. My loins inflamed and stiffened. She drew down the coverlet and sheet with one graceful hand, and shyly stroked my stomach and chest.
“Schoolmaster,” she whispered, “I need you. . . .”
She sat down on the bedside and traced her fingertips down to my left thigh. With a rustle of a giggle she cupped my balls. My mouth watered under her caress and the very sight of her. So alive she was, or so my eyes told me. With a bashful tilt of her head, her fingers glided up and down my shaft. How warm, alive she felt, and the light sensation she impelled was maddening, defying all the logical warnings that shouted in my brain. She bent over me, and my skin was set aflame. My nipples hardened beneath the weight of her pressing breasts.
Carina’s tongue lapped playfully over my chin. “Will you not kiss me of your own accord, schoolmaster?”
I could only look at her. I was a man sinking under clashing waves of desire and patient caution. She kissed me again, moaning softly into my mouth. Grasping the root of my cock, she began to stroke me. I was plunged deeper beneath the waves, and the contrasting currents were vying to blind me now to everything except the physical need to claim her.
Her mouth released me, her hand too. She inclined over me carefully, and her weight was as inconsiderable as straw. Her eyes held mine; but though they glinted with passion, there was a mechanical steadiness to all her movements, even in the somber pout that came to her mouth. My desire slackened and rational thought buoyed me up to crest the waves.
“I know your wishes now, Marcel.”
I felt a power emanate through her, an intelligence alien and separate from the true sweetness of her character. It was not even similar to the passionate vampire who had ravished me before. This power sought to captivate me with ardor, confuse and bind me with my own affections. My cock was squeezed gently between her thighs. I released a deliberate moan. I felt the power try to scour through my mind, and it was faux desire alone that now shielded my reason.
“Yes, you still desire the beauty you’ve always denied yourself.. . .”
I granted her a convincingly entranced nod.
With an approving purr, she bunched the hem of the gown up to her thighs and straddled my waist. Sublime confidence sparkled in her eyes as she regarded me. She toyed with my nipples, pinching them slightly, and trailed a fingertip from my chest to my collarbone. Her hips undulated a moment, and I realized how very dry her nether mouth was, nothing like the lathering, ardent little portal I had known before. She gathered her hair atop her head and peered at me with the look of a triumphant Amazon. She expected me to be spellbound by her gaze, lost of will utterly, as if I had been born and destined to lose myself to the unholy pillage she planned. And so, I feigned just that.
She pressed my wrists into the mattress over my head and leaned forward to kiss me roughly. Her lips skimmed over my ear, then down to the cleft of my throat. She released my arms and pinched my nipples, harshly enough I had to suppress a protest. But it brought a careless laugh to her, and as her lips buried into my throat, the fingertips of my right hand sought out the smooth metal of the collar on the coverlet beside me.
Her mouthed roved over my jugular vein. Her tongue flicked over the area, pumping my circulation with the brisk movement. She arched her back and pressed me deeper into the mattress, and with a wanton sigh, her lips drew back. I felt the sharp tips of teeth press into my flesh.
I snatched the collar firmly, clasped my arms about Carina’s shoulders, and took hold of both ends of the collar with my hands. The iron frame lengthened easily. Carina grunted, but unaware of the reason for my sudden movement, only pressed harder on my shoulders. I clamped the collar down hard against the back of her neck. She hissed uneasily, and at the moment her head raised, I noosed the thing about her throat.
With a squeal, she leaped back on her heels. My force held staunchly as she thrashed and tore at my hands and the collar both. I sat up and she was trapped, straddled over my thighs as I held on to the collar. Her hair was snatched between the thing and her neck. The more she struggled, the more disheveled her hair became, and served as a barrier against her scraping nails and my hands while I spoke the last incantation of the rite.
When the last Germanic word was uttered, Carina stopped struggling. But she began to growl angrily, and through her tousled auburn locks I saw her eyes had lost the sweet light of life. Black they looked, devoid of even the memory of humanity. The radiance seeped from her skin, the semblance of heat as well.
“Pull your hair out,” I commanded.
She shivered in fury, and when she did not comply, I said, “Do it now or receive punishment.”
Carina howled with malicious laughter. The next moment, she gasped and shook her head violently. In utter frustration, she screamed and beat the crown of her head with her fists. At length she slumped and began to sob. I raised to my knees and allowed her to fall back on the bed.
“Marcel?” She sounded honestly bewildered, and I felt Griselda’s possession slip away.