Barbara Hambly - 01 Those Who Hunt The Night

Like dark spiders, his fingers parted her collar, down to the sad little ruffle of her mended muslin chemise; the milky throat rose like a col-umn from the white slope of her breast. "Do you remember your wife and her servants, asleep because I willed that they should sleep? We can do that, I and my-friends. I know your people now. At my calling, believe me, they would come-that big mare of a chambermaid, your skinny little Mrs. Grimes, your stupid scullion, or the lout who looks after your gardens and stables-do you believe that? And all without knowing any more about it than this woman here." His black leather flngers stroked the untouched skin. The woman's open eyes never moved. As if he were deep in the sleep of exhaustion, Asher's mind kept screaming at him, Get up! Get up! But he only regarded himself with a kind of bemusement, as if separated from his body by an incredible distance. The noises of the train seemed dulled, its shaking almost lull-ing, and it seemed as if this scene, this woman who was about to die, and indeed everything that had happened since that afternoon, which he'd spent explaining the Sanskrit roots of Romany to an undergradu-ate named Pettifer, were all a dream. In a way it made more sense when viewed so.

"A poor specimen, but then we feed upon the poor, mostly-they're far less likely to be avenged than the rich." A fang gleamed in the trembling gaslight. "Do you believe I can do this to whomever I will? To you or to anyone whose eyes I meet?"

No, thought Asher dully, struggling toward the surface of what seemed to be an endless depth of dark waters. No.

"No." He forced himself to his feet, staggering a little, as if he had truly been asleep. For a moment he felt the vampire's naked mind on his, like a steel hand, and quite deliberately he walled his mind against it-In his years of working for the Foreign Office there were things he had willed himself not to know, the consequences of actions he had taken. The night he had shot poor Jan van der Platz in Pretoria he had forced himself to feel nothing, as he did now. The fact that he had succeeded in it then was what had turned him, finally, from the Great Game.

As deliberately as he had pressed the trigger then, he walked over to the woman and pulled her to her feet. Ysidro's pale eyes followed him, but he did not meet them; he pushed the woman out of the compartment ahead of him and into the corridor. She moved easily, still sleep-walking. On the little platform between the cars the wind was raw and icy; with the cold air, his mind seemed to clear. He leaned in the door-frame, feeling oddly shaken, letting the cold smite his face.

Beside him the woman shuddered. Her hands-ungloved, red, chapped, and callused, in contrast to that white throat-fumbled at her open collar as her eyes flared with alarm and she stared, shaken and disoriented, up into his face. "What-who-?" She pushed away from him, to the very rail of the narrow space, as if she would back off it entirely into the flying night.

Asher dropped at once into his most harmless, donnish stance and manner, an exaggeration of the most gentle facet of his own personality that he generally used when abroad. "I saw you just standing in the corridor, madam," he said. "Please forgive my liberty, but my wife sleepwalks like that, and something about the way you looked made me think that might be the case. I did speak to you and, when you didn't answer, I was sure of it."

"I..." She clutched at her unbuttoned collar, confusion, suspicion, terror in her rabbity eyes. He wondered how much she recalled as a dream, and became at once even more consciously the Oxford don, the Fellow of New College, the philologist who had never evenheard of machine guns, let alone wadded up plans of them into hollowed-out books to ship out of Berlin.

"Fresh air will wake her up-my wife, I mean. Her sister sleepwalks, too. May I escort you back to your compartment?"

She shook her head quickly and mumbled, "No-thank you, sir-I- you're very kind..." Her accent Asher automatically identified as originating in Cornwall. Then she hurried over the small gap between the cars and into the one beyond, huddled with cold and embarrass-ment.

Asher remained where he was for some minutes, the cold wind lash-ing at his hair.

When he returned to the compartment, Ysidro was gone. The only thing that remained to tell him that all which had passed was not, in fact, a dream was the woman's purple scarf, collapsed like a discarded grave band on the floor between the two seats. Asher felt the anger surge in him, guessing where the vampire was and what he would be doing, but knowing there was nothing he could do. He could, he sup-posed, run up and down the train shouting to beware of vampires. But he had seen Ysidro move and knew there was very little chance of even glimpsing him before he found another victim. In a crowded third-class carriage or an isolated sleeping car, a dead man or woman would pass unnoticed until the end of the journey, always provided the body were not simply tipped out. Mangled under the train wheels, there would be no questions about the cause of death or the amount of blood in the veins.

But of course, if he issued a warning, nothing at all would happen save that he would be locked up as a bedlamite.

Filled with impotent rage, Asher flung himself back in the red cush-ioned seat to await Don Simon Ysidro's reappearance, knowing that he would do as the vampire asked.

Her name was Lotta." Don Simon's soft voice echoed queerly in the damp vaults of the tomb. "She was one of..." He hesi-tated fractionally, then amended, "A hatmaker, when she was alive." Asher wondered what Ysidro's original description of her would have been, "In life she was a rather poor specimen of a human-cocky, disrespectful of her betters* a thief, and a whore." He paused, and again Asher had the impression that the Spaniard was picking through a jewel box of facts for the few carats' worth of information with which he was willing to part. "But she made a good vampire."

Asher's left eyebrow quirked upward, and he flashed the beam of Ysidro's dark lantern around the low stone vaults above their heads. Shadowed niches held coffins; here and there, on a keystone arch, a blurred coat of arms had been incised, though why, if Death had not been impressed by the owner's station, the family expected Resurrection to be, he was at a loss to decide. Highgate was not a particularly old cemetery, but it was intensely fashionable-vaults in this part started at well over a hundred guineas-and the tomb, with its narrow stair lead-ing down from a tree-lined avenue of similar pseudo-Egyptian mausole-ums, was guarded by its well-paid-for isolation and was, at the same time, far easier to enter than the crypt of some City church would have been.

"And what makes a good vampire?"

For a moment he thought Ysidro would evade the question. The Spaniard stood for a moment, nearly invisible in the shadows of a dark niche, his aquiline face inscrutable in its long frame of colorless hair. Then he said slowly, "An attitude of mind, I suppose. You must under-stand, James, that the core of a vampire's being is the hunger to live, to devour life-the will not to die. Those who have not that hunger, that will, that burning inside them, would not survive the-process-by which the living become Undead and, even if they did, would not long continue this Unlife we lead. But it can be done well or poorly. To be a good vampire is to be careful, to be alert, to use all the psychic as well as the physical faculties of the vampire, and to have that flame that feeds upon the joy of living.

"Lotta, for all her vulgarity-and she was amazingly vulgar-was a truly attractive woman, and that flame of life in her was part of the attraction. Even I felt it. She truly reveled in being a vampire."