Chapter Two: The Bloody Countess
Saul approached the
one house left standing in the village with some trepidation. Even if
the rumour that fledgling had babbled just before Lupin cut his head
off was true, and the old bastard really was dead, it would be wise to
be cautious – who knew what sort of booby-traps the old psycho
might have installed?
He was surprised,
but not necessarily pleasantly, by the conspicuous lack of any pointy
things that shot up out of the ground or flew through the air at him.
That didn’t mean anything. The smell of old blood emanating from
the house, however, did.
He reached the
slightly ajar door, drew his sword just in case, took one cautious step
forward into the house – keeping close to the doorframe –
and heard the thud of the thing that had sliced the
side of his face in the wooden frame, before he felt the sharp pain
from his flesh.
A guttural giggle
emanated from the room at the far end of the shadowed hall:
“Whoops! I was aiming for your ear! Guess I need to practice a
bit more!”
Slowly raising his
fingers to the cut – which was disturbingly close to the lobe of
his ear – and feeling the warmth of his blood beginning to seep
and well, he made out the figure that the giggle belonged to. A girl, a
vampire girl, was bent over something in the half gloom, her dirty hair
hanging in hanks, hiding her face. The only part of her that was
visible in any clarity was her pale, bare right arm, still extended towards him in the motion that had let loose the
– he dared to glance to his left – the throwing star that
was embedded so deeply in the wooden frame it had practically sliced
its way through the feeble material.
He looked back at
the girl, just in time to see her straighten abruptly, disturbing the
air currents so that a whiff of her scent met his nose and made it
wrinkle; it raked across his nostrils like a file, sharp, harsh,
grating, like something that had been broken and glued back together
with only minor care. But her scent was nothing compared to the sight of the girl herself. With that emaciated frame upon
which her stained tank top and jogging bottoms hung loosely, the
abnormal grin that managed to be both perky and more than slightly
terrifying, and the huge pin point eyes, the image of an steroid
addicted airhostess who had really let herself go
came uncontrollably to mind.
If it was possible,
her smile grew even wider as she focused upon him. “Sorry, are
you a customer? We’re not taking any commissions at the moment,
we’re very busy!” She let her other,
hidden hand fall, and it seemed to meet an equally hidden surface with
a harsh clang of metal upon metal.
Saul unconsciously
tightened his grip on his sword as he fought for words to speak.
“Umm…no…I’m not a customer. I…came to
see how Cain was?” he finished weakly. Who was
this girl? From the precious little he knew of the sword smith he had
never even let another person into his forge alone, and now here was
some sort of apprentice? What the hell was going on?
“Oh,
he’s fine.” To his secret relief, she lowered her visible
arm; even the sight of the empty fingers, stretched towards him and
gleaming palely in the moonlight, was somehow far worse than seeing the
selfsame fingers holding some deadly implement, ready to chuck at him.
“That’s
nice to know,” he ventured, taking another tentative step
forward, holding the sword ready to block another attack, should it
come. He wasn’t letting this strange creature get another clear
shot at him, especially since she apparently had a near perfect aim
even when she wasn’t looking at him.
“Oh, yeah! He’s perfectly fine, all perky and stuff, and
urging me on! Of course, I had to cremate him a few months back;
otherwise his body would have started going all yucky and mouldy, even
without his blood! But I sewed his head and arm back on before I did
it, and he looked sort of sweet, even if he wouldn’t have wanted
to! Anyway, his blood’s still here, even now, and it keeps me
warm, and it tells me what to do and how to do it!”
Oh shit,
she was completely mad. She was nuts. She was even crazier than the old
coot. Saul forgot all about moving forwards, and instead started to
edge backwards. Even though by her scent he could tell that he was
older than her, and presumably more powerful, madness and knowledge of
weapons put together made for a potentially lethal combination, and he
wasn’t that much of a fighter or powerhouse in any case.
“You killed him?” he stuttered. “You killed him and ate him?”
“No.”
For the first time, her voice lost that manic edge. She bent over the
strange object again. “Some people came, from
“I’m
sorry? You’re going to
“Yes.” In an instant
she had shot out of the forge and right up to him, her face was
practically pressed up against his, with her horrible breath clouding
his nose, her body pushing against his with a force that was unearthly
strong, even for their species, his back against the wall cutting off
any escape route, and something uncomfortably pointy was digging into
his neck. Looking into her wide orbs was enough to make his own eyes
water uncontrollably. “I trust you’re not going to
immediately run off to
What else could he
do but try to deny this? He shook his head, or as well as he could
while trying to ignore images about the state of his neck should he
move too much.
“Oh, good! Because otherwise I would’ve cut your arms
and legs off!” She spoke as if this was an amazing, revelatory
treat, to be savoured with the fervour of a child. “And then
you’d have to bleed to death, and that wouldn’t be very
nice, would it?”
She seemed to be
expecting some sort of answer, so he croaked to imply that no, that
would not be very nice at all.
“But at least
your blood would make good moisturiser.” She leant forward and
sniffed his now freely-bleeding wound. “And then again, maybe
not.”
To his intense
relief she finally stepped away, taking the sharp points away from his
throat as she did so. “All right, get lost, big boy. I have work
to do.” As she turned away, the moonlight shone on the jagged
blade of the sword she grasped in her right hand, and the finished
throwing stars that gleamed at her waistline. “And as far as all
the little vampire faces are concerned, this place is empty,
okay? If you say otherwise, I will come and find
you, and the cutting arms and legs off thing will
still stand. Or maybe just lie on the floor screaming and wriggling
like a little bug on its back.”
Saul was something
of a coward, but he also had the sense that came from cowardice. He
nodded slowly and emphatically, so that even with her head turned away
she’d be able to see, and then backed carefully out of the door,
before turning and running for it.
Pity was not an
emotion which came easily to the vampire, but as he heard behind him
the roar of something that sounded suspiciously like a chainsaw, and
above that another high-pitched giggle, he found that he was really feeling sorry for the prince of
*
Throughout the warm nights that summer, if
there had been anyone or anything left in the countryside to watch,
they would have seen a slender, magenta haired girl making her slow but
steady way south, towards the bright light of
But then again,
there was nothing living left to see.
*
My name is Meredith. The name I was given after
I became a vampire was a much finer one, but I have cast that aside, as
I have cast aside everything to do with what I was – save one or
two things. Memories, and regrets. And hate. I can never lose my hate.
I write in the
ruins of what was once a palace, and before that was the house of a god
that seems to have long abandoned this world. Perhaps one day someone
will find this testimony, though in truth I doubt it. But this is the
only way I can and will tell of what happened here, and what destroyed
the power of the vampires in
I do not pretend to
be saintly, nor seek to convince whoever finds this of my innocence. I
know exactly what sort of creature I was, even if I was under the
influence of the monster who made me what I was – Thaddeus
Catesbury, the elected prince of
I have sworn to
myself that I will not weep while escribing this. I must concentrate on
my task.
So; I aided in the
ultimate fall of humans in
Catesbury, however,
was not content to live underground. Very early on he claimed the
relatively unscathed cathedral of
But I digress.
Such was
It was the
anniversary of the fall of the
It was late into
the gathering when one of the attendants approached Catesbury,
informing him that a young vampire wanderer had arrived at the doors to
the palace, and demanded entry. Catesbury, seemingly stupid with
pleasure and blood, instructed the servant with joviality he did not
normally possess to allow the stranger to join the revelry; but not
without presenting them to him first. It would probably have gone
better with him had he not been so generous, or perhaps just not so
eager for a potential exploitation.
I
still remember the sight of her as she came in, so
unlike the elegance I had become accustomed to in my life of luxurious
captivity, surrounded by everything that was beautiful and nothing that
was ugly or common, including the human slaves. Travel stained and
graceless clothes, a gaunt face and with filthy, clumsily cut hair, the
girl was not exactly the epitome of style, and all were aware of it. As
she was led towards the throne conversation ceased and all eyes
swivelled around to rest upon her; eyes that had seen many atrocities
and belonged to those who had taken part in and caused many atrocities
as well; and the owners of the eyes did not think much of this shallow,
slight thing at all.
I remember her
scent; like a half-healed wound that still smelled faintly of poison,
and which had barely begun to heal.
I remember her
eyes, like huge pearls with tiny black dots scrawled onto them, staring
up at Catesbury and the black sword that had been brought to him with
excessive show months before. I remember he had prized the sword, so
highly that I had actually been jealous of the weapon.
I remember the bear
at her waist, which curiously resembled a teddy bear made of metal. I
had thought that all the toys had perished, along with the tiny hands
that had played with them. Clearly I was wrong, or at least on one
count.
I remember her so
well. The one who maimed me. The one who trapped me. The one who set me
free.
The wounded one.
The Bloody Countess.
I remember all that
transpired between the two, my erstwhile lord and the one he had
wronged.
“Will you
join us in our revelry?” he asked. The girl had stared back up at
him, her head tilted so that her dirty locks fell down onto her
shoulder.
“I’ll
not dine nor sup with you,” she declared at length.
Catesbury laughed.
“For any reason, my dear? Has one of my numbers caused you
offence – unintentionally of course, I am sure?”
“No,”
was the bland reply. “I’m just not hungry.”
Catesbury laughed
again, which was unusual for him. “Why not just drink, then? But
never mind. You have come here for a purpose; what is it? Oh, but
first; who are you?”
“My name is
Rendal Phibes Bathory. My master was Cain the sword-master –
right up until your lot cut his arm and head off, at least.”
The atmosphere
became electric. Few of the guests knew of the circumstances by which
Catesbury had come by his newest weapon, but they could tell by the
sudden summoning of manna by the attendants that something was afoot,
and placed down their glasses, ready to cast their own spells. All
their attention was focused on that slight, stained form in front of
the throne, who judging by her scent had been wounded so deeply that a
great fissure had been rent down her very being, and who had healed in
a way that had warped her more than Catesbury had ever warped Saint
Paul’s.
Catesbury, to his
credit I suppose, kept his cool. “Ah, yes, the sword smith. I was
not aware he had an apprentice.”
“No? Well,
you are now.”
“I suppose
you’ve come here for horrible, bloody vengeance?”
“Vengeance?”
Her voice suddenly changed in nuance, tone, her face light up. It was
as if her whole mind had transformed, as she abruptly beamed up at the
two of us on the throne. “What would I want vengeance
for? After all, what’s a little murder between
vampires? I’ve got the forge all to myself now, and that means I
got a chance to finally upgrade Freddy!” Her fingers went to the
metal bear at her waistline, giving it a loving stroke. “If
anything, I should probably be thanking you! And so
should the rest of us! So thanks! Thanks from all of us! Except maybe
Cain; I don’t anyone would thank someone for killing them!”
It was obvious by
now that she was completely insane, but that did not mean guards were
let down – mad vampires were no less dangerous for the loss of
their grasp of reality. Everyone watched with some fascination as she
calmed down as quickly as she had grown excited, and gazed up at
Catesbury intently. “However, there is a problem that you could
help with.”
“Really?”
He sat back in his throne, smiling down at yet another poor unfortunate
he planned to control, just as he controlled me, and the masses of
humans he had ensorcelled to turn on each other and gun each other down
in the wars in
“Yes. You
see, I’m keeping up Cain’s old contracts – and it
turns out that he was due to make a delivery to an important client,
and it’s kinda tricky to make a delivery if I don’t have
the sword to deliver.” She turned her gaze to the prized sword,
sheathed and standing by the throne, Catesbury’s dearest
possession, held in esteem far above myself. “That
sword, to be perfectly precise. So if you’d just hand it over,
I’m sure we could forget the whole business of the running
through and arm and head cutting off of my master – if I
hadn’t already forgotten it.” She wiped her fingers across
her forehead, taking away some of the grime. “See? All gone! No
hard feelings! So give the sword back, all right?”
Catesbury looked
down upon her as if she were some sort of slug, and I probably did the
same. Who was this miserable girl, to enter because of his hospitality,
and then demand his precious sword?
“And if I say
no?” he asked mockingly, leaning forward and leering at her.
“Then I say
this.” She reached over her shoulder with her right hand, pulled
out whatever it was she had been keeping on her back – which
turned out to be a huge sword, the blade curved and the edge jagged.
The blade which imprisoned me. The blade which
set me free.
She pointed the
sword at Catesbury, without even a trace or a scent of fear.
“Hand over the sword, you wanker, or I’ll gut
you.”
Catesbury
didn’t even blink. I, however, would probably have leapt upon
her, had not his mental bonds held me in check. I desperately wanted to
rend her limb from limb, for even daring to insult my
great lord.
Thinking about the
pathetic minion I was is truly disgusting.
At a sign from
Catesbury, attendants and drones surrounded the girl, pulling out
weapons, ready to rend her flesh, spelling the blades to inflict
maximum pain. They wouldn’t make it quick, like I wanted to, to
get her out of my sight, out of my mind, away from my beloved master.
Catesbury always enjoyed watching others wish for death long before it
came.
She laughed. As
long as I live, I’ll never forget that laugh. If the spectators
did not think much of her, she thought nothing of them at all. Her eyes
rolled, whether in her madness or in exasperation or in despair itself
I do not know.
“You think to threaten me with swords I
helped make? Swords you stole?”
She grasped at something on the pommel of her
own sword, yanked it, and a roar filled the great building as the
blades upon her sword whirred into life. “Come on,
then!”
And she moved
first. Almost too fast to see even for vampire eyes she scythed into
the bodyguards. Her weapon screamed as it met the blades of her foes,
but it was their swords that broke, struck by the chainsaw in such a
way that the metal they were constructed of could not take the strain
and shattered. Guards looked stupidly at the useless weapons fractions
of seconds before their heads exploded in gory showers of red, setting
my nose on fire.
One leapt at her,
abandoning his broken tool in favour of his claws; something flew from
her hand and smashed him backwards through a pillar and into the wall.
As his bloodied body slid down the marble he left much of his head
behind, crushed into a pulp by the metal bear that protruded out of the
stone. That hollow in the wall is still there to this day, and the
stain has not faded after all these years.
Other shapes left
her free hand that darted swiftly to her waist and straightened again;
shrieks came from those who were sliced by the seemingly endless
razor-sharp throwing stars.
Catesbury snarled,
all his humour gone, and I felt and was aware of him pouring his
hypnotic will out over his guests, over me, grasping my mind along with
the others and focusing it on one thing alone. At once every party
guest was no longer an aristocrat but a warrior, ready to fight, and I
was his faithful hound.
Kill her!
I was the first to
spring from my cushion, unchained, fuelled by the bloodlust, eager to
obey my master and taste her blood, to tear her throat; and I was the
first to fall. Even as I reached out to slice her apart with my claws
she grinned her horrible, frantic smile at me, and the chainsaw bit off
my right arm and ripped open my stomach, disabling me at once. But in
truth, that is probably what saved my life, since I was writhing on the
floor and unaffected by the horror of what happened next.
I remember that the girl began to sing as she
reaped the sanguine harvest; her cracked voice rising even among the
shrieks of those she cut down like a true demon.
"‘Oranges
and lemons,’ say the bells of St. Clement's!”
The aristocrats fell before her blade like the
humans they had cheerfully butchered for their own satisfaction. Secure
in their surroundings, they had relaxed their manna and their skill in
manipulating it – and they had doomed themselves.
"‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St. Martin's!”
From my sprawl of agonizing pain, I saw leaping
vampires clutch their chests and crash to the floor, writhing in death
throes. Some clawed at themselves, opening great tears in their skin,
to let the blood come boiling out, steaming and hissing as it cooked,
driving the as yet unharmed guests into a wild frenzy. The heads of
others just exploded, spattering gore and brains. Everything was red,
the taste of blood was in my mouth, but it had long since ceased to be
sweet.
“‘When
will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey!” she
hummed and hissed, pulling the metal bear out of the wall with a
sickening sound and flinging it at Catesbury, who only just managed to
duck. The eyes of a guard who reared up behind her to ambush her
suddenly exploded in twin waterfalls of carmine. The blood rained down
upon her head, plastering her hair to her scalp and running down her
face like tears of her own, despite her insane grin. Manna flickered
around her like a fire, an even deeper shade of that crimson that was
everywhere now.
Whenever I think of her in that moment, I think
of a metamorphosis – a creature that had become something else
entirely.
“‘When I grow
rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch!”
she sang out, deftly slicing a drone into green-spewing pieces.
As I
watched, still trying not to pass out from the pain of my wounds, the
last few guests and guards collapsed in their own vital fluids,
twitching in a most unpleasant fashion. I suppose that the only reason
I was not suffering the same fate was that she – for she was the
only one who could be doing this – thought I was already dead.
She was advancing on Catesbury now, a maniac smeared with red, the
stained chainsaw pointing once more on his retreating, now
panic-stricken form of my sire.
“Blood magic?” he stammered, raising
the sword he had achieved through ill-gotten gains.
“But…it can’t be! It just can’t!
You’re not an Elder! You’re just a child! A
child!”
The dreadful girl smiled, even as she crooned.
“‘When
will that be?” say the bells of Stepney!”
As she
spoke the words she lunged forward, slicing down with the blade roaring
for his blood. If he had not dodged, it would most certainly have
quenched its thirst.
I watched with detachment flooding me, as
Catesbury summoned up all his influence, stripping away the hold he
still had upon me. All at once, I could see what was truly happening
– not my beloved, loving master fighting an evil foe, but one
monster pitted against another, in a fight to the death. But the true
difference was that I now knew who had a definite chance of winning.
And it wasn’t the one who had kept my mind
and the minds of so many enslaved throughout the years.
Through my still present connection to him, I
felt Catesbury focus all his will and might upon her mind, in an effort
to break her attack – and saw his consternation when his efforts
failed, as well as the girl’s lips part in a deriding laugh, just
before she struck at him again. He only just parried – there was
comparably little strength in his arms. Catesbury’s strength had
always lain in convincing others they were weak.
“Who are you? What are you?”
Her next blow knocked the sword out of his
grasp. She caught it deftly, and placed it upon the ground, never her
eyes off him. Her voice came now in a whisper.
“‘I do not know,’
say the great bells of Bow.”
As my
loss of blood finally began to shut my body down for recuperation, try
as I did to stay awake, I saw her advance upon the one who had
controlled me, who had foolishly drained himself of all his power in
his attempt to control her. I confess to a certain amount of clouded
enjoyment, induced by natural pain killers, at the look on
Catesbury’s face.
He tried to leap into the air, to fly, but fell
with a painful thud to the ground, and could only crawl backwards,
whimpering like the pig he was. Moving slowly out of my line of vision,
she followed him quietly and slowly, the mania from her killing spree
quite gone. As she walked, she muttered, but I was still able to hear
her:
“Here comes the candle to
light you to bed,
Here comes the chopper to chop off your
head.”
Just as
they passed from my sight, she raised her still growling weapon above
her head, and brought it down.
“Chip.” The squelch
of flesh and the crack on bone was almost drowned out by his scream,
and the gush and abrupt smell of his blood.
“Chop.” He screamed
louder, more urgently, more desperately than before. I had a fair idea
of what she was cutting off.
“Chip.” Now it was
as if he was one of the damned, so loud were his shrieks, only
amplified by the dome directly above us.
“Chop.” The way he
had screamed before, I was by now very dimly surprised he had any
strength left to cry out.
As I finally sank into the unconsciousness which
called out to me, I still managed to hear her final remark: “The
last man’s dead…I don’t think.”
In the end, it was pain that called me back
– my own, and the faint registration of the agony of some other
in the back of my head. I opened my eyes to a veritable mish-mash of
bodies and blood, lit only faintly by the beginnings of daylight in the
windows. The only person left standing was her, as
she made her way through the carnage, picking up the remnants of swords
and axes, cooing over them like a human mother might over her baby,
before bringing them back to a great heap she had created in a space
that was conspicuously clear of blood.
On her third trip past my prone body, she
remarked that I might as well get up, since it was obvious that I was
still alive, so I shouldn’t waste the rest of what might not be a
long life by pretending to be otherwise.
When I asked – without caring too much
– where Catesbury was, having noticed his lack of his body among
the many corpses, she replied simply “Look up.”
I looked up, and I saw.
By some strange method she had hoisted up some
thin cable in one of the arches that leads into the dome; and from it
by the neck hung my erstwhile master, his gorgeous golden hair splashed
with blood, stripped of all his clothes, and also deprived of both his
arms and legs, and his tongue as well, judging by the sounds he was
making. Yes, he was still alive, and even without his appendages he was
struggling to escape, but even I could see it was a lost cause. The
more he struggled, the more the cable bit into his neck, and I knew
that this was to be his method of execution, rather than blood loss
from his wounds. It would take a long while for him to die, and he
would be aware for every last second of it.
When I finally took my eyes off the grizzly
sight, it was to see her placing the last of the load
of broken weapons onto a fairly undamaged cloak stripped from a
lord’s body. As she tied up the corners, she looked over at me;
and I was not sure which was worse, her eyes bloodshot in battle, or
tiny and concentrated upon me, especially when she had already robbed
me of an appendage.
“Had enough?”
I shrugged hopelessly, unable to create a better
response. It was not so much the sight above me that had undone me, but
the memories that came flooding back. I could remember everything I had
ever done since becoming a creature of the night, now that I was no
longer under the spell of the pitiful thing who wriggled helplessly
above me. I remembered all the atrocities I had committed, the people I
had killed, the sights I had seen and enjoyed with animal ferocity;
every foul deed, every terrible word, every vile action, all crowded
within my brain, yammering to overwhelm me. They haunt me even now, but
then…well, I am still surprised that I did not throw myself in
front of her and beg her to end my miserable existence by slicing off
my head.
But I know she would not have done it. Her work
here was done, save for one thing. She came over to me, and crouched
down in front of me, entirely too close, though I was not in a position
to complain. She brought her face close to me, and whispered in my ear,
“I have cast a healing spell upon you. Your arm will grow back in
a few days. I want you able to use both your hands.”
In an answer to my no doubt quizzical look, she
went on. “I spared your life for one reason only; because of
him.” She jerked her thumb up towards her victim. “I
don’t intend on him getting down. He can stay there until he rots
and bits start dropping off. And that’s where you come in!
You’re to make sure no one gets him down and does a little
healing of their own!” She pushed her horrid face still closer to
mine. “And believe me, if I find out he’s down and about,
I’ll come back, and I’ll do the same again, to you as well
as to him – because for what he’s done, I don’t want
him to rest in peace! Only in pieces!” She held out her bloody
hand. “Do we have a deal?”
What could I do?
So here I have remained; ever since she left
with her bloodstained swords and her blood-soaked bear and her regained
commissioned piece, I have stayed here in this place, that was once a
house of God, then a palace, and is now a tomb. When still loyal
followers of the prince of New London arrived, to regain the bodies and
set up a new council, I drove them away again, with the strength that
she gave me in the healing of my arm; I refused to let them back in,
leaving the bodies to decay and the blood to turn stick dry and dark,
not even lapped up by flies. When the human slaves staged a revolt in
the aftermath of Catesbury’s fall, and carried out their escape
from this city of the dead I, unaffected, still kept watch over my own
palace of the dead. Even when Catesbury’s struggles finally
ceased, many long months after he was first strung up, and his body
soon began to rot and fester, I stayed. I dare do nothing else. The
Bloody Countess has retained her hold upon me, even after all these
years.
Those who still live in this city - once so
glorious, the epitome of vampire society – still call her the
Bloody Countess. The more superstitious call this place her temple, and
I her priestess. They leave gifts of blood outside the doors for me,
not daring to neglect the Countess’s favourite, the one she
spared. I can only laugh at how wrong they were. She did not spare me.
She doomed the others to death, but she doomed me to something much
worse, to live.
And I can do nothing else. I dare not.
Since I do not have the courage to leave the
echoing halls, still ripe with their stink of blood, I have carved this
testimony into the marble beneath where Catesbury’s body remains
hanging to this day. Perhaps one day when I myself have rotted away it
will be found, but not before. I will let no one in while I still live.
In this I ascribe my memory, and my warning.
Beware the Bloody Countess. Beware her powers
that will destroy you from within. Beware her weapons that will turn
against you. Beware her eyes, and the madness hidden within. Do not
become like I, who both love and despise the woman who released me from
the thrall of the man I still loathe, and bound me in a new thrall of
revenge and despair.
That is how much I hate her- with a passion.
Writing by an unknown person,
‘Meredith’, found in the ruins of the former
*
Some vampires in New London who were not slain
in what would soon become known as ‘The purge of Saint
Paul’s’, claimed to have actually seen the woman, the
Bloody Countess, who had ensured the death of the prince and many of
his subjects, as she emerged from the darkness of the cathedral as
filthy as the day she was first born, straight into the promise of the
sunrise.
Watching from the
shelter of ruins of buildings, they had seen her hold a dark obsidian
sword up to the growing light, and smile, causing the blood to drip
from her chin even more rapidly.
Then she had
sheathed the weapon, and hoisted her load onto her back. With her other
hand she held a small metal bear up to her face, and kissed it, adding
more blood to the carmine sheen it was already smeared with.
Then she had walked down the steps of the cathedral, and scorned the shadows, and disappeared into the sun.
Interlude Two
I walk up the path to the door. I
open the door. I step inside. I walk through the hall, into the forge.
Well,
here we are again, baby, Freddy, Cain! Home again, home again,
joggity-jog! We’re back, and to prove it we’re here! Home
sweet home!
Except it isn’t really sweet, when it
still smells of blood.
Blood’s nice to taste. It’s nice to
put on your skin. But it’s not so nice to smell.
Everything smells of blood. Even me. Even
Freddy. Even the sword.
Still, we can change that, can’t we? Even
if the sword still stinks of
But sunrise is a few hours away. The water
won’t be warm until then. What to do until then?
I put down the load, and study it. All those
broken bits, inside it, of all the weapons I had to break. It’s a crying
shame. A crying, howling shame.
Well,
I should probably start the fire again. A good smith never lets their
fire go out. And then I’ll mend the swords and axes and blades.
I’ll mend all of them. Every single one. I’ll mend each
one, and if someone comes they can have one, though of course
they’ll have to ask nicely first. And maybe still be smiling
after I throw a shuriken at them. Only the best get the swords. No,
I’ll keep Cain’s work going, even if it means giving swords
to not so good vampires.
I’m not an apprentice anymore, am I, Cain?
I’m a sword-master now, too. I’m skilled. I’ve passed
the test.
I won’t be able to have any fun any more.
Wasn’t it fun, though? Even if we did have to
break the weapons, it was sort of fun to hear them go smash! And fun to watch all those aristos go squish! Wasn’t it odd how they did that when you suggested it,
Cain? And when the blood in us called out to do it? I never knew I
could do stuff like that! I never knew any of us could
do stuff like that!
It’s certainly getting crowded inside my
head. There’s me, then there’s you, dearest darlingest
baby, and Freddy takes up quite a lot of room; and now Cain’s
here as well, being all grouchy as ever! One big, happy family, right
inside my head, for whenever I need you!
I like you a lot better than the others that
used to live in my head. At least you don’t tell me to do things.
Or if you do, then they’re always fun things. Like stringing up
that berk Catesbury. Or dancing just before the sun came up, then
taking a trip to see the Underground, and making everyone think I was
all burnt up. My, but we fooled them.
After this, though, no more fun things.
It’ll all be work, and no play. Boring, I know, but babies must
not grow up spoilt, and teddy bears can’t always be going off to
pig themselves at picnics, and lodgers must not have everything their
own way. So; we’ll finish off the sword with sun-warmed water,
and then we’ll take it to the client who commissioned it.
The sword still stinks of him. It won’t for much
longer. I’ll enjoy purging it of his scent, just as I enjoyed
dicing him up and stringing him up to hang, like the pig he is. I loved
watching him dance.
He danced quite well, for a bloke with no legs.
Did you like watching the mean man dance, baby?
Did you enjoy pulling his arms and legs off, Freddy? Did you feel glad
that the one who ordered you dead is dying now, Cain?
Enough about him. He’s gone up, and
he’s not coming down again, except in little moldy pieces. Time
to finish the sword. When it’s done, we’ll take it…
Where are
we taking it, Cain? Tell me! To who?
Oh, all right. To whom.
Now tell me!
Chapter Three: The Lone Child
Jack’s
diary – What’s the point of telling anyone to keep out?
So
far, tonight was…interesting, for want of a better word. No,
that’s something he would say. Dammit,
it’s bad enough that he’s mind-raped me without me starting
to fucking sound like him as well! Okay! Try again:
Some crazy stuff happened today. Crazier even
than what’s normal in this fucked up castle. As I was going about
what’s routine for me i.e. trying to keep out of Orlock’s
way, lest in a fit of whatever passion he’s experiencing in his
creepy little mind, to take just one example, he sucks on whatever part
of me takes his fancy and then cuts it off, or else just cuts it off. Guess I know why he hasn’t been doing that
sort of stuff any more lately. Or at least, not much. Orlock may be a
completely twisted, psychotic raving nutcase, but even he
wouldn’t go on castrating some poor sucker – that’s me, by the way – whom he’s formally
acknowledged as his son. At least, I hope the hell not. It’s not
like he’s expecting grandkids that I wouldn’t provide him
with in any case.
Oh great, I started rambling again. Okay, I am going to get this down without deviating.
So, there I was. Mooching along some corridor
somewhere that looks out onto the entrance hall with Vallov following
me, as you do – or rather as he does; he’s barely left my
side for an instant since The Lord And Master gave him to me. I swear,
if I still needed to use the bathroom, he’d be in the room while
I was sitting on the john - thinking about how much I hate that asshole
of a sire of mine, when suddenly I heard – wait for it – a
knock on the doors. I kid you not. An actual knock, on the front doors.
I’ve been here for close on eighty years, and if there’s
one thing I’ve learned – apart from all the orifices I
never knew I had, but found out about when Orlock probed them with pins
and needles – you don’t knock on the front doors of this place unless you’re crazy or suicidal.
And you certainly don’t go on to kick the
doors and start shouting unless you’re both.
“Oi! Anyone at home?” Whoever was
outside sounded pissed, but rather because they didn’t like to be
kept waiting outside than because of any of the reasons people got
pissed in here i.e. a normal reason. “Hello! I’ve got a package to deliver!
It’s pretty hard to deliver it if you don’t let me in!”
For no other reason than because I was curious
to see exactly how this going to turn out – seems I’ve
turned into a glutton for other people’s punishment –
Vallov and I moved to prime spots for watching the doors. They
didn’t creak open like in those old horror films. Orlock
isn’t really big on theatrics. In the end, whoever was on the
other side of them gave up and kicked them open, and marched straight
in.
That girl…where to begin? I like to think
that, even in the times when Orlock was dissecting me for kicks on a
nightly basis, I still managed to keep myself fairly clean. Or at
least, I crawled out of whatever pool of blood I was left in at the
end, and pulled off and discarded my sodden clothes when I could find
the strength to do so. At any rate I never looked as if I’d taken
a bath in the stuff, and left my clothes to dry and turn stiff, or the
blood to clot in my hair and daub my face. The only part of her
that was clean at all were her hands, and they were so unnaturally
white, even for our species, they’d obviously been scrubbed,
scrubbed till she might have screamed with the pain. She clearly
didn’t want whatever she was carrying wrapped, in black material,
to get dirty.
Even I was impressed, and not much impresses me
anymore I can tell you, by her complete lack of reaction to her
surroundings. I mean, the décor Orlock favors would probably
raise the eyebrow even of people who had a few screws loose –
like me - let alone anyone sane. But she just looked around as if she
walked into shadowed, blood spattered cavernous entrance halls with
less than attractive things on the walls every night of the week, and
considered this on the whole rather dull fare.
“Oi!” she shouted again.
“I’ve got a delivery for a Mr. Orlock, no apparent first
name! Someone’s got to come out and get it,
because I’m not just leaving it here in the hope someone picks it
up!”
God, but it was amusing to hear her bandy
Orlock’s name like that. Matter of fact, even I didn’t
learn his first name until he’d tortured the living crap out of
me so many times he knew I wasn’t about to run off and blab it to
all and sundry around the castle. Orlock didn’t seem to
appreciate it so much, judging by the demons that suddenly started
coming out from the corners of the hall and slinking up to her. Vallov
growled, looking forward to a fight – even though he’s a
pretty frigid guy, I know he hates those things as much as I do –
but I preferred to sit it out for the moment, and Vallov has to do what
I say.
That girl had guts – or she was crazy, as
I was strongly beginning to suspect. She didn’t appear to even
notice them – until they touched her; then she went ape. Even as
one demon, a horrid thing that looked like a cross between a monkey and
a bat, slid up against her thigh and brushed against some strange sort
of metal bear hanging there, there was a roar and the demon swiftly
parted company with its head. Very swiftly indeed.
I can’t believe she managed to hide a
chainsaw on her back all that time.
“No touchy Freddy!” she said,
hefting the whirring blade in one hand, still holding the parcel tight
in the other.
The other demons kept their distance after that.
I felt something stir in amusement in the back
of my mind. I indulged the feeling for a moment, before I realised it
wasn’t mine; it was Orlock’s. And Orlock, as we all know,
is rarely amused by anything. If he is, someone’s going to suffer
quite soon.
Vallov and I watched as the demons formed some
sort of honour guard around her, and guided her up the entrance hall,
towards the stairs. The stairs. Hoo boy. Only a few
poor suckers get taken upstairs, so to speak. Orlock usually just locks
any intruders in the dungeon, if he doesn’t kill them straight
away. Well, I say dungeon, but it’s really just a ground floor
room with lots of things to chain up and hit people with (not in a
kinky way whatsoever) leading right off the entrance hall. Orlock may
not be one for theatrics, but he is one for not
wasting time.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, as
I watched her disappear up the next flight of the dreaded stairs.
The feeling will probably soon evaporate, I’m sure,
but…
Oh, damn. Orlock’s just called, in that
horrid little way of slipping his voice like a needle into my mind.
Wants to give me a present from him, apparently. Knowing him,
it’s probably one of the girl’s eyes.
*
Orlock was impressed by the insanity that
radiated from the child in front of him. It was an exquisite revelation
– not quite as wonderful as the character of his own dear, dear
Jack, but still an extremely pleasant surprise. A delicious treat.
He licked his tongue against the inside of his
closed lips even as he gazed blankly at her. “I commissioned this
sword three years ago. On the whole, I would say that it has been a
little late in coming.”
“Oh yeah!” The magnificently attired
child, adorned with the blood of her own kind and with the weapon that
had no doubt dealt them their ends strapped once more to her back,
beamed up at him. “But, see, it took Cain half a year to plan the
sword, ‘cause he wanted it just perfect for you,
and then it took him another year to make it, and then it got stolen
just as it was finished and his head was cut off so he couldn’t
work on it anymore, and it took me another year to go to New London and
get it back, and I had to spend time boiling all the scum and stuff off
from those exploding people in the palace – and here it
is!” As was protocol she fell down onto one knee, and offered the
sword with both hands; but unlike protocol she kept her eyes on his
face. Despite her professions, and her madness, she was obviously
examining him to see if he made anything of this.
Her little hands were so white. They would make
such a nice trophy for his wall…but he resisted the urge to
slice them off. It would never do to get the sword dirty before
he’d even seen it. And such hands were far too pretty where they
were at the moment to be harvested…yet.
He took the sword from her, and carefully
unfastened the black velvet, taking time and care to get every last bit
off before he turned attention to the sword itself. He placed the
velvet on the ground, neatly folded; he telepathically summoned Jack to
present himself – if the sword was satisfactory his sireling
would be given it as a gift from a father to a son, and if it were less
than satisfactory his child would watch him cut the girl’s head
off as a punishment - and only then did he examine the blade.
It was a good sword. It was a very
good sword. Cain really had excelled himself this time. If what the
child had said was true – and her brain was too addled for her to
lie well – then Cain’s last work may well have been his
best. Every part of it was according to his instruction; the obsidian
like metal, the hilt that was just the right size for the grip of the
one who would wield it, the jewels which would be useful in
enchantment, without the user having to waste time using their hand to
summon a spell. Perfect. Every single part of it was without blemish,
or flaw. Perfect, as only the smith could create.
Such a pity that he
was now dead. All that talent, all the potential he had held, all the
power he had kept locked within himself, utterly wasted. He had often
attempted to ‘persuade’ Cain to continue his bloodline, but
the sword-smith had been surprisingly resilient to any hints that he
should sire another vampire, just like sweet, stubborn Jack. For a
moment Orlock had hoped that this singular child was the product of
Cain finally taking his words to whatever heart he had, but he could
smell quite easily that she had not been sired by the sword-smith.
Still, the hint of Cain’s scent was there,
lacing the blood beneath her stained skin, and the smith’s
essence was present in a distant corner of her mind – along with
several other interesting occupants, he noted. Extremely interesting.
He decided to test his theory.
“This is a good sword,” he stated
casually, lifting it up close to his eyes, seemingly looking only at
the blade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl’s face
light up with an insane grin of pleasure, but what was much more
gratifying than any grin was the flare inside her mind; partly made up
of the gratification it shared with the child, but much more hostility,
characteristic of Cain. So, the smith had put some
part of himself inside her! Perhaps in order to stave off the death he
inevitably had felt approaching, ensuring some small fraction of
himself lived on to continue his work in the girl’s body? But no;
insane as she was, she was still dominant in her own head. It was very
curious indeed, and rather mysterious, even with the added aid of his
advanced telepathic powers.
Fighting the urge to attempt the ‘hands on
approach’, tearing open her skin and skull and brain and
examining inside her head much more closely, he let his lips twist up
in a smirk. “A very good sword indeed. I am sure my son will
appreciate it.”
As if on cue, the door opened, and his beloved
Jack walked in moodily, followed by his first gift, the drone. His boy
both seemed and looked fairly surprised that the girl was still alive
and retaining all her body parts, but quickly forced his face into the
expression that Orlock so desperately loved – blank, unreadable,
tantalizingly making one wonder what thoughts lay behind that beautiful
face, and fathom what might be used to extract those self same
thoughts, by hook or by crook. Jack had no idea just how inviting he
unwittingly made himself in these moments, and if he did he would be
delightfully, completely horrified and revolted.
“Come here, Jack,” he called, and
was rewarded by the sight of his sireling coming obediently, albeit
with hunched shoulders and heavy steps. As the boy stopped in front of
him, eyes fixed balefully on his face, he held the sword out to him.
“A sword, specially designed and made for
you alone, Jack. Take it. It is my gift to you, my son.”
Secretly he was hoping, even under the wild
desire that Jack would indeed acknowledge him as his father, that his
sireling would refuse yet again, and he would have the chance to use
the sword to split his pretty flesh and spill his blood once more, a
divine combination of white and red. He did not know whether to be
pleased or disappointed when Jack, barely flinching at the last word,
silently reached out and took the sword; taking care, he noted, not to
let his hands touch Orlock’s own. He examined it in his turn.
“This was made for me?” he asked,
the faintest hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Indeed. By a master of the art. You
should treasure that sword, my son. Its maker will never make a better
one. Its maker will never make another one at all.”
Jack shot him a glare from under his eyelids,
obviously thinking that it was he, Orlock, and not some lackeys of the
recently deposed prince of
“Cain’ll make loads of better ones!
Better than perfect! Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean
he’s stopped working! A master smith never stops working, just
because he’s died! He’s in here, you know!” She
tapped one snow white finger against her filthy temple.
“He’s here, in with me! We’re going to make swords
together, so don’t you dare say that he
won’t make any more!”
So, the child knew of her master’s
presence, had even acknowledged it. This really was wonderful! He would
indulge in this affair further. He smiled down at her. “I
apologise. But since I am certain you have traveled a long way, and you
must be hungry, would you care to join me for dinner before you
leave?”
She blinked up at him rapidly, her rampant
irritation quickly forgotten. “Forget dinner, how about a tea
party?”
“As you wish.” He turned to look at
Jack and the drone, Jack looking as if he still expected him to swipe
off the girl’s head at any moment. “Would you care to join
us, my son?”
For the first time since he had entered the
room, the boy grimaced. “I think I’ll
pass…sir.” He backed away, the drone following, still
holding the sword, as he ground out his thanks for the gift. For the
first time in a long while, Orlock didn’t care. All his attention
was focused on this girl, for now.
“You’ve got a pretty spiffy place
here,” she commented, as he led her back down the stairs,
seemingly unaware that if it suited him, he could well be leading her
to her tomb. “But the décor’s a bit off. You need
more bunnies on the walls, I think.”
“Bunnies?”
She nodded. “Bunny skulls. Or at least
teddy bears, like Freddy.” She patted the bear at her belt, and
he was intrigued to see a presence very like to it swim through her
mind. She had actually created another part of her psyche, influenced
by her experiences with the toy. “Lots of real teddy heads, if
there are any teddies left! Still raw from being hacked off their
bodies! With all little bits of spinal cord and bone and stuff. Just
like that!” She gestured at one of his most prized wall hangings.
“Only maybe not a human head.”
“I’ll think about it. Perhaps over
tea?” He opened the door to the room where he had left something
earlier, to snack on.
The girl looked through the door and around the
shadowed chamber, and for the first time she looked impressed.
“Wow.”
This was one of his private rooms. Jack never
came in here if he could help it. Orlock didn’t know why.
They’d had such fun in here, after all. He still did, as the
floor, walls and even the ceiling testified by their sweet sanguine
tint.
“You know,” the child said, as she
looked around her, “Cain would so have stuck a
sword through your head by now.”
The sentiment of her master didn’t stop
her from feasting on a man that had lain bound with human guts on the
floor for days, terrified, only to have his fear finally ended by a
glorious blood smeared wraith. He sat and watched how she ate. Nothing
like himself, who if he chose would tear a human apart while he fed,
nor like Jack, who was fastidious in the extreme, barely even allowing
his lips to touch the meal’s skin, lest he associate himself with
the act, and much preferring to drink from a glass. She was brutal, and
yet there was a strange tenderness in her brutality. Even as she bit
savagely into the human’s neck she cradled him in her arms, much
as Orlock imagined a mother would hold her baby, much as he himself had
once held a baby girl, before he had slit the infant’s throat. As
the man shuddered in his death throes she rocked him gently, humming
something deep in her throat, until the last spark of life went out of
him.
She spent some time looking at the body intently
after she had lowered it to the ground, before looking up at him.
“It doesn’t work!” she spat.
“You were trying to do something?”
He had hardly noticed, too busy being intoxicated by the sheer power he
had felt flowing in her veins, almost completely echoing that of Cain.
He wondered if that power would glow as brightly if it flowed on the
floor, with her own life blood.
“We were trying to make
his head explode!” She gestured at the corpse. “But it
doesn’t work, no matter how hard we try! Back in
“Should it work?”
She nodded again, so fast her head practically
became a blur. “Ever since we – I drank
Cain’s blood when we found his body, it’s as if it’s
just been waiting to wake up. I saw visions in it. It told me where to
go, and when I was there it took over for me, and cut them all down. We
painted the walls in blood.”
Orlock felt his face crease into a smile. His
tongue lapped his lips and chin in sheer joy. It all added up.
Everything. Cain, after all he had said, all the views his twisted mind
apparently held, had created this, this broken, mended, vicious,
miraculous, victory-stained warrior; the Bloody Countess.
“It makes sense. Cain was an extremely
powerful blood mage, even after he locked the ability within his body
and turned his skills to weapons. It is only natural that, having
consumed his blood, his power should pass to you.” Even as he
spoke, he knew that excitement of a kind he had not experienced in a
long time flowered within him. It was very like the night he had Turned
Jack, though not quite as vivid as the ecstasy he had felt at the
transformation of his little sireling – a refreshing experience.
It intrigued him to know that the world could still surprise him. Cain
certainly had, the old dog. Siring yet not siring, giving the child the
blood she needed to survive and prosper and grow strong, even though he
did not perform the act himself.
Lunatics
could be frighteningly clever, as he himself knew well.
She was looking at him now, curiosity lighting
up her eyes, her lovely pinpoint eyes. “You knew Cain? You know
about blood magic?”
“But of course. Your master and I
were…acquaintances.” He stood up, and it gratified him
that she looked up to him, so small, as if her head had already been
cut off. “What will you do now that you have delivered the
sword?”
Her pupils widened slightly, as if her throat
had just been ripped out; but he recognized it as a sign that her more
rational side had taken over, at least for the moment.
“I’ve got to go back to Cain’s house. I’ve got
to keep his business going. I’m the sword-smith now.”
“Indeed.” Now was the crunch time.
He bent down, clasped his fingers around her chin and forced her face
up to his. She spat and snarled, her eyes once more pinpricks glaring
up at him, but his nails dug sharp into her skin and drew fresh blood
that was now her own. “This country has been vaguely entertaining
for the past few years, but now that you have oh so kindly deposed
“Do I have a choice?” she muttered,
or as well as she could while he was effectively disabling her jaw.
“Of course.” There was always a
choice, after all. It was just that he did not often offer it.
She grinned manically, genuinely, even as his nails ripped her jaw off. “I’ll do it,” she gushed, just before her mouth simply gushed blood.
Epilogue
That’s
all I remember, baby. That’s all I’ve been able to find out
about what we’ve done, about what we’ve all been.
Everything I’ve been able to find, able to remember.
We know about causing the downfall of vampires
in England, and killing so many of our own, when together we made up
the Bloody Countess, with my body and Freddy’s aim and your love,
baby, and Cain’s will. About what Orlock wanted for us, what he
wanted us to become, what he still hopes to use us for. About what you
were, Cain, before you became a smith, and died, and gave me and baby
and Freddy your precious blood. All the things you’ve seen, and
done, with Orlock or without, enough to make even a vampire weep.
Boo
hoo.
Don’t cry, baby! It’s not all sad!
We know where Freddy came from, don’t we? We know of the
happiness we had together, even in the hospital, even with Smith and
Pentecost and dying and coming back to life, and, and, and me being
able to keep you safe for ever, even though you won’t ever be
born, and, and…
And…
And…and
at least we had that time with Cain! Don’t argue, you two, and
don’t you argue either, Cain! You know we were happy, all four of
us together, with no one bothering us! We were so happy! Happy happy
happy! All of us! So happy!
I’m sorry we’re not happy so much,
now. I mean, I’m happy, a lot, but that’s just mean of me,
because I so often can’t share it with you both, only with
Freddy. But Freddy always can’t wait to see you, baby, and he
tells you all he knows, and I tell you all I know, Cain, or you feel
it. Are you happy that Orlock says that my blood power and my skills
with weapons are rivalling yours, now?
Didn’t think you’d be. What do you
want of me, blood?
Tough luck, ‘cause I’ve got yours.
Oh come on, no hard feelings, surely? Not after
I let you into my body and my hands when we make weapons together? Not
when I went to all that trouble to get to England, just so we could
check on Catesbury? I’m surprised the place stayed standing that
long! At least that girl did her job, and she scratched stuff into the
wall very prettily too! Didn’t you enjoy that? And stealing those
pages from Jack’s diary was no joke, let me tell you! And getting
hold of Orlock’s blood – have you ever tried to get blood from an
insane demon king? Don’t answer that! - and finding the right
memory…
Fine, you’re in a huff. Okay, be like
that. Doesn’t matter what you think. We’ve got Jack’s
diary, and the stone the testimony was carved on, and the mental home
records – you seriously owe for that one, by the way – and
the memories from my blood and your blood and Orlock’s blood in
me. That’ll help us remember, always.
Won’t
it, baby? Won’t it, Freddy? Won’t it, Cain?
Yes, you’re welcome, Cain.
Love you, baby. Love you, Freddy. Love you all.
Now, you’ve got to go back for now.
It’s time for me to intercept Orlock’s bouncing big
screw-boy, and that wimpy little Riff-raff. Jack is gonna be so pissed off, and that’s
only part of the fun I’ll have. He knows I can take him, with
weapons or without, even though I’m so, as he puts it,
“completely fraggin’ nuts.”
Well, it was something other than fragging, but
I’m not going to say that in front of all of you.
See you both soon. I’ll be here, and
Freddy'll be here, the way I’ve always been and he's been for so
long, not the Bloody Countess anymore, and probably never again. Just
me, Rendal Phibes Bathory. Ren.
No, of course you don’t hold me back, my
loves! It’s just because after all, a girl just wants to have
fun! Fun fun fun! In my beetle black, berry red armor, and with my
chainsaw and with Freddy Teddy, I’ll have fun fun fun!
Girls just wanna have fun...
And
I leave you in my memories, where you’re meant to be.