Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
Vampire at Prayer
O
Dark One, are you watching me? Do you spare a quiet thought for my affairs, here in this brash new world where my search has brought me?
Craggen stood on the small balcony of his apartment, looking down on the night-shrouded trees enclosed within the block’s outer rampart of condo towers and brownstone row houses. His night vision sharp, could pick out each leaf, each sleeping bird, each soft-footed cat scrabbling up the fences between the patchwork of smaller back yards and gardens. Most residential blocks in this city contained these hidden territories, and they fascinated him.
He sipped wine from a stemmed glass—watered wine, just enough to warm him and rest his thoughts. How they churned his feelings, these hot, living folk, when he spent any time among them! Fortunately, over the generations he had learned to tolerate little of what sustained them, and that sun-grown nourishment enabled him to endure their company (and also the daylight of their working lives, if the sky was not too bright).
Still, northern cities pleased him most, especially in winter with lowering clouds and short, dim days.
Not to mention the crowded streets, from which a vampire might take his slender supper without notice so long as he was discreet about it. These people were normally too busy with their own affairs to pay much heed to one denizen’s modest, though singular, appetites.
That thin old woman hunched into her quilted housecoat down below, now, opening her back door with a sweep of yellow light: as usual, she called to her pug dog to come in from the yard, where it spent its days digging madly for imaginary rewards. The woman might notice a young man standing on his balcony with his drink, but what of it? Even if she somehow found out what his more usual drink was, would she speak to anyone about it? In what terms, without making herself sound naive or crazy? In a city like this one, the naive and the mad were neglected or taken advantage of; they did not survive long, once the common run of urban predators had identified them. No. The old woman would mind her own business unless he tried to drink from
her
; and even then . . . .
A crowded world had its advantages, although sometimes the noise and rush was very wearing. He was proud of himself for being still in it, not driven out by constant change (he’d not been much used to change at Craggenheim, with life on a small scale and geared to the round of the seasons). He wondered if his own country had been steamrollered into global modernity by this time, steeped as it was in persistent traditions and ancient grudges.
But in fact he didn’t much care. His own world was so much wider than that now, wider and deeper and richer.
Dark One,
he thought, in the old formal tongue of his normal human life,
watch over me as my elder; help me keep my promise, help me take what belongs to me by right.
And
, came a voice as sable-black as a raven’s feather,
what shall you do then, Baron?
Whatever I will.
The voice whispered,
You do not know what you will. Your mind is already blurred with interest in a living woman, a performer of fictions on the stage—a professional liar. Be wary, young Baron, of venturing beyond your depth.
Nonsense!
He scowled at his half empty wineglass.
My “youth” is only apparent, as you well know; as for the woman, she is attractive and talented but ephemeral, like everything else of the daylight world. To me, she is simply a person close to the person I pursue. In her own right, she can be no one special. A pawn, Lady, no more.
You have been thinking of her.
I have been thinking of how best to make use of her. Don’t you think I have had enough, in my long life, of pretty ladies—the best and the worst of them? And this one is scarred, body and soul, by great loss and fearful hopes. There’s too much anxiety; it’s depressing.
Then why do you picture her so closely in your thoughts, Baron?
To know her better
, the vampire said in the sparkling darkness of his mind under the flat, washed-out darkness of the city’s night. Griffin the mercenary took my Magda from Castle Craggenheim.
Maybe I should take this Jessamyn from Griffin the playwright, before I kill him like a dog. The reversal appeals to me.
Do you think that’s all it is? Then you are a fool
, came the answer, light and careless and almost fond.
For you are already lost.
Craggen smiled at the pallid sky and lifted his glass in a toast to the unseen speaker.
Dear Dark One, I was lost the night you drank away my human life and gave me this shadow life instead.
I gave what you asked for.
True. I do not complain, I merely observe.
What, then, are you doing out here on this cold night, winging your thoughts away over the midnight seas to your blood-soaked homeland?
He sighed.
Pursuing my purpose, Lady, pursuing my purpose; without that, what
could
I be doing, still in this world that no longer has a place or a need or a use for me?
Y
ou are moody tonight,
came the reply.
It would be best for you to find yourself a meal. Moodiness is dangerous for your kind. You can die of moods, you can throw your away life—such as it is—on a gloomy whim.
Craggen shrugged.
Never fear, Lady; I am hot on the trail of my true prey, and I won’t stop short of my triumph.
For a moment there was nothing but the distant honking of horns at some knot in late-night traffic, and the roar of a plane overhead. Then the answer came,
See to it, then. I do not appreciate the waste of my gifts, Baron.
Which is as it should be,
he responded calmly, and drained his glass.
But this is my last hunt, and you must pardon me if I take the time to fully enjoy it. I will go take my food as you suggest; and in time I will take also the prey that belongs to me, and take back my property also. This woman with the sadness in her eyes will help me unknowingly, and touch me not at all.
To this there was no answer; and after a moment he went inside to put on his warm coat. He covered his russet hair with a soft black hat, and drew onto his muscular hands soft, snug-fitting gloves. Then he went down into the pale night of the city, to assuage his hunger.
And he felt no fear at all, for he believed what he had told his dark ally.
The Bailiff’s Tale
T
he transcription shook slightly in Nick’s hands as he read. How had his father missed this?
By being a man of action, probably; by rushing off into the fray, whatever it was, instead of doing deep research. And Grandfather Geoffrey, before him? The Burch Collection had been strictly a private hobby of an obscure professor in his time. He had doubtless never heard of it.
But here it was, the answer—maybe—some answers at last.
The room smelled of old paper and furniture polish, and the bulb in the brass reading lamp was rather dim. Alone and still wearing his duffle coat (the heat had only been turned on for his visit), he read eagerly.
The original account, faded ink on stained paper to be touched only by white-gloved hands, had been somewhat modernized on typing paper as crisp and clean as if no one had ever handled it since.
“Testimony of Stephen Leigh Griffin, of the Griffins originating in the village of Hale’s Hay in Wessex, England.
“I, Stephen Griffin, wish to put forward here my account of what has been told to me by my father, George Griffin, in the days before his strange and lamented death. We are men of the New World now, but a devilish history links us to the land of our origin, a tale passed from father to eldest son, and with it always a sad and early death, despite outward prosperity in our family’s undertakings.
“My father said to me that the fortune of the Griffins began in the ninth century, when Griffin was the name of hereditary bailiffs for a nobleman, the Earl of Banford in Wessex. By thrift, good service to their lords and by the grace of God, their fortunes waxed. Yet the bailiff Stephen Griffin was hated by the villains whose interests he crossed in pursuance of his duty to his lord.
“He was much reviled behind his back and sometimes to his face, including a public cursing by one Alice Riggs, thought to be a witch. She prophesized that one of his family would bring home to the Griffin household a blood red bane that would follow the Griffin men down the generations, until there would come an heir of this house who would unloose his grip and lay bare his breast letting his treasures lie as open for the taking as the petty treasures of the Earl’s people had been open to being taxed away by the bailiff in the performance of his duty.
“It was said even then that the Griffin men were hard men in a hard time. The third bailiff chose not to share his worldly goods between his two sons, reserving nearly everything to the elder son, Simon. A small portion only was bequeathed to the younger, Adam, to outfit him for soldiering so he might go win riches of his own.
“At his father’s death Adam Griffin went abroad, fighting where he was hired in foreign wars, no word being heard of him sometimes for years together. Meanwhile his brother Simon prospered and became himself a wealthy small-holder as well as the new Earl’s fourth bailiff of that family, and thus he established his line.
“And then Adam Griffin came home from the lands of the Germans and eastern barbarians bringing with him a great red ruby as big as a walnut that was a wonder to see, and also a fair haired woman that he married. She never said one word in a known language that anyone could puzzle out in all the days she lived in Griffin Hall.
“Of the red jewel Adam said he had it from a nobleman who promised him gold and a fine warhorse for his services, but then tried instead to kill him when payment came due. Adam Griffin took what payment was owing for the many battles and skirmishes he had fought in this lordling’s service, the ruby being part of that payment. He also brought away the young woman named Magdalene, who had been a ward in the foreign lord’s household, safe from the pillage and upheavals of that country due to wars and the absence of laws of either man or God. She had no other family or protector left there.
“Before long, word of the ruby reached the Earl himself, some say because Simon could not bear his brother having it if he could not have it himself. So the Earl demanded to see the famous gem, and when Adam would not show it the Earl of Banford had him thrown into a dungeon and there he died.
“Simon Griffin was also taken before the Earl in the same matter, but he said that Adam’s foreign wife had stolen the ruby and run away. A search was made, neither she nor the stone was found. The Earl never forgave Simon Griffin for the loss of the ruby, and years later falsely accused him of embezzling tax moneys and had him executed.
“No one knows what became of the foreign woman, Adam Griffin’s widow. The stone itself returned, somehow, to the hands of the Griffins (if indeed it had ever truly left, for no Griffin since has managed to get rid of the cursed thing even knowing its evil reputation). The Griffins’ repossession of the stone was kept secret from the Earl and from all the outside world, but within the family it has long been said that Simon had killed his brother’s widow and hidden the ruby himself, so it had never left Griffin hands at all.
“True to Alice Griggs’ curse, calamities fell upon the Griffin sons ever after, one sorry doom after another, as the red stone passed down among them. My father says that in the reign of Queen Anne, William Griffin claimed to have seen a strange dark-haired woman in a vision, and then he went away to London to lose himself among its citizens, as he had been told by his father that this vision of a woman on horseback was the first sign of the approach of the Griffin doom.
“The second sign was his meeting with a stranger from abroad, a strong, stern, foreign man whose name no one but William ever knew. This foreigner accosted William by night in a street in London outside a tavern and gave him a token: a brooch in the shape of a claw, empty where a stone should be set in its grip.
“This stranger said to him, ‘This brooch is mine, but the stone that was once set in is in your possession, although it belongs by right to me. I have come to claim my property, and with it I will take your life. For this purpose I have prolonged my own mortal days by a hellish bargain, the terms of which protect me from any threat or wrath of yours.’
“Then he disappeared.
“William straightway returned to Griffin Hall and had all his retainers keep sharp watch for the foreign man in league with the Devil, or the strange pale woman on horseback. No one later claimed to have seen either one. Yet within a fortnight William died, knocked from a bridge over the River Ban in what was recorded as ‘a drunken brawl with persons unknown’. The stone passed to his son, who was great-great grandfather to my father, with these fateful encounters and an early death following soon after.
“Frightfullest of all, the stranger is always the same, not just to look at, but the same man entire, his back unbowed by age and his face no more lined than when it was last seen. His Devilish bargain has bought him an endless life in which to pursue the prize the Griffins hold as the very foundation of our family’s wealth and progress. Since the great ruby came into our possession, the Griffin fortunes have increased. The thing has been privately carried to holy places to be blessed three times, to no effect; but no Griffin could bring himself to part with the stone, despite tales of curses and evil proceeding from the jewel itself, for fear of causing the family to fall into poverty and ruin.
“This cursed stone, red as the heart of Hell itself, was brought by my father, Jeremy Griffin, across the ocean at the end of the last century, and wrought its magic to establish his family in prosperity from the first year they were here.
“I myself wish the object had been left behind or stolen, perhaps, on the journey from Bristol Harbor, but that did not happen. Although I planned to be done with the stone, at the last moment all my other goods were lost in a fire, and I had to borrow against the stone to begin again. These loans I successfully repaid, redeeming the red gem, after a hard, long time; for without the stone the Griffin luck truly did desert me.
“Now I have seen the woman, and a fine ring was slipped into the pocket of my coat while I was taking my ease in Andrew Mull’s tavern; so the foreign man himself, the Griffin demon, has made his challenge. My time is short.
“For those of the Griffin blood who come after, know this: the grip of his hand is stronger than iron, and he casts a very slight shadow at any hour. He will meet you at dusk or in darkness rather than in the brightness of day. But though he will steal your life in the end, use your wits till then to preserve the ruby from his grasp and ensure the continuing fortune of our house and our blood. If we cannot escape this thing, let us at least profit from the necessary keeping of it. Life need not be long, if you are full of decision and the courage of your heritage. You can make your mark on the world and gather increase for our posterity.
“Perhaps one day a Griffin heir will live in times more advanced than a mere demon can command, and our enemy’s hold on our future generations will be broken and he himself cast down into the flames his master lives in. If not, let us still be brave.”
There was no signature on the original.
So here it all was. Nick had seen the harbinger, a woman pale as marble with hair and garments like flowing black ink, on a spectrally white horse.
And a token had been delivered—not to him, but to Jess: the delicate brooch of Berlin iron, metal blackened like painted metal palings around a graveyard. When Walter had clandestinely borrowed the thing and shown it to him, Nick hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch the thing. He’d known at once what it was—a gauntlet, jeeringly thrown down not at his feet but into the innocent keeping of his life’s love.
Flooded with hot anger, he sat at the table with the transcript in his hands. He was terrified, too, for himself and for Jess. But it was still too soon for him to take action, especially now that he had all this new information to absorb and integrate. He had little enough hope as it was, and if there were any way of increasing it, he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to find out about it. He must meet the monster armed with all the weapons he could lay his hands on.
He thought of offering to buy the original document and the transcription both from the clearly cash-strapped Burch collection, but he hesitated. Maybe it would be better to let the story stay here, safely out of the way, for someone else to ferret out in the future. If nothing else, it could be shown to Jess to help explain the deadly trap he’d found himself in.
He asked the curator to accompany him to someplace where the bailiff’s story could be copied. The Burch Collection’s copying machine was broken.
“I need to copy this, Mr. Pease,” he said. “And I think you can expect a hefty donation from me in the near future. You might want to start looking for a new copier.”