Denny took a step toward her, but she held her hands out in a gesture of denial. ‘No, don’t come near me, I can smell your blood from here, and I’m hungry. So hungry I could die all over again. I can hear your heartbeat. It’s driving me crazy, please stay back. It didn’t work. I’m still a vampire.’
Denny shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We won’t know until the dawn, that’s when the transformation occurs.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your sire is dead,’ Denny explained, ‘and it happened before the dawn, which is when the transformation occurs, which means at dawn you will revert to human form instead of becoming a vampire, as is usual. Although you would only be a half vampire until you made your first kill. If your sire dies before you make your first kill, again, you revert to humanity. But once you make that kill, nothing can save you.’
‘
He
was my first kill,’ said Tamar dully, pointing to the pile of dust and ashes at her feet, a by now, familiar sight. ‘What does that mean, am I saved or not?’
‘Only the dawn will tell,’ said Denny. ‘This has never happened before, that I know of.’ He gave a short laugh, devoid of amusement. ‘Trust you for that.’
‘Then I’ll wait for the dawn,’ she said. ‘If it takes my soul with it, it will also take my body.’ She glanced at his stricken face. ‘It’s the only way. Try to understand, I can’t be a vampire. I can’t live that way. I don’t want there to be even one second when I don’t know what it is to love you. It wouldn’t be right.’
Denny bowed his head.
‘Now, please go.’
He vanished. And Tamar went outside to sit on the ancient gravestones and await the dawn.
‘Bloody Hell,’ she thought glancing at her watch, five hours to go, ‘I wish I’d brought a good book.’
* * *
The clock ticked interminably as Denny sat miserably on his bed waiting, waiting, waiting for the dawn, which seemed to have made its mind up to take itself off to Mexico for a sabbatical and not come back until the weather improved. He had not felt this helpless in a long time. Not since before she came.
When he had returned, he had answered the questioning looks with a terse. ‘Too late.’ Only adding, when pressed by Stiles, ‘Peirce is dead,’ before sloping off upstairs.
He realised now, as he thought about it, that he had left them with the impression that he was the one who had disposed of Peirce, still he supposed it did not really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He resisted the temptation to lift out his books, to pore over them in hopes of finding an answer which he knew they did not contain. It was as he had said. Only the dawn could tell. And before that he had to face the apparently unending night.
Strange thoughts assailed him.
‘What if the sun never came up again? A thought he had not had since childhood, when the nights had seemed so long as he listened to his drunken father rant at his mother and the walls of his life seemed to close in around him. Those nights had been long, but not like this. ‘God, was a night ever so long?’ He felt like that other Denny, the small Denny who had always been so afraid, like the teenage Denny who had always felt so inadequate. But he was not the same; he would never be the same, because of her.
Please let her be all right
. And what if she’s not? He forced himself to face it because he would have to go on, whether he wanted to or not, because of what she had shown him about himself. That he was not a coward or useless, because he could do things that others could not, not because of the Athame, which was just a toy – a tool. But because he
would
do them; and others would not. She had called him a hero. He baulked at the term, but he knew what she meant by it. And one day, he would die doing what he did. Right now, there was some comfort in the thought.
His thoughts turned to vengeance, but there was no comfort there. Pierce was dead, or destroyed, as you prefer. And Askphrit was in Hell, who else was there to blame? Only himself, and he was suffering enough. ‘God, was a night ever this long?’
* * *
Downstairs the others were sat in a silent circle of grief. They held hands, none of them felt the slightest inclination to move or speak. Where was there to go? What was there to say? Somehow, despite his defeat, in releasing Pierce, Askphrit had won. Suddenly Hell did not seem nearly punishment enough, even to Stiles, who had had a taste of its horror.
Not one of them felt any urge to intrude on Denny’s sorrow, not that they did not care, but if he wanted to be alone, let him. He had earned it. And because they did not know to consciously wait for the dawn, for them at least, it crept up on them unawares and all too fast.
* * *
About an hour after dawn, Denny slowly descended the stairs. The living room, where the others had congregated, was still dark. When the sunlight had first begun to fill the room, like an unwelcome intruder on their grief Cindy had risen and pulled the heavy curtains across. This was no time for dancing sunbeams; it had felt like an insult. Denny wandered in and automatically pulled the curtains open. He was heavy eyed and walked like a man asleep. The sunlight smote him like a slap in the face. It was true then; the long awaited dawn had finally come, and had brought with it no Tamar. It was over.
There was a knock at the front door, and it was Eugene who went to answer it. Seconds later he was yelling. ‘Denny come quick.’
Galvanized, but not daring to hope – Tamar had no use for doors, at least not in her own house – Denny ran to the door to be confronted with an elderly man, who stood twisting his cap around in his hands. ‘She’s in the car,’ he said. ‘She asked to be brought here, ‘though I reckon she needs a hospital, if you ask me, but she was so insistent like. But I’ve never seen owt like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she didn’t have a skerrick of blood left in her, but o’ course, she’d be dead, if that were the case. Now – oh there you are sir.’ He turned to Denny, who was carrying his precious burden back to the house, and was about to repeat everything he had just said, but Denny hurried past him into the house. The man touched his cap, having replaced it on his head and made to leave.
Eugene grabbed his wrist. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Never fear, you did the right thing – here.’ He fumbled in his pocket, but he found it empty. Stiles, who had been hot on Denny’s heels, produced his wallet, but the old man was insulted. ‘Put that away,’ he growled, as if Stiles had opened his flies unexpectedly in a convent school. ‘I dint do it for that. What kind of a worl’ would it be eh, if’n you can’t help your fellow creatures without wantin’ a reward?’
Denny had reappeared at the door, to tell them that it looked as if Tamar would be okay.
H
e had left her holding the Athame, and he heard this speech. He smiled; perhaps there were more heroes in the world than he had thought.
‘She’s going to be okay,’ he told the man. ‘Thanks to you.’
The old man’s face creased into a smile. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘That’s all the reward I wanted. I’ll be on my way now sir, if that’s all right.’ He quite naturally addressed his remarks to Denny as if the others were not even there, Denny had this effect nowadays, he tended to fill the foreground of people’s minds.
‘Of course,’ said Denny. ‘I’m sure you must be busy,’ he winked at the old man, and they looked at each other as if recognising something of themselves in the other – they understood each other. The old man turned to go. ‘Wait,’ Denny called. The old man turned inquiringly. ‘Could I have your name? I’m sure she’ll want to thank you herself, when she’s fully recovered.’
‘I’m Arthur Charpentier,’ said the old man, surprisingly. ‘I’m always around, not hard to find.’
Denny grinned. ‘Rescuing kittens stuck in trees?’ he asked. ‘Saving drowning children?’
The old man grinned back. ‘Ah, you’re a card you are,’ he said. ‘I reckon you know the score all right. Well, be seein’ you.’ And he trotted back to his car.
‘Yes,’ muttered Denny. ‘I have a feeling we will.’
* * *
Tamar lay asleep in the vast over decorated, gilded four poster bed that she had chosen when they had gone over the house together. Denny hated the bed, more so at the moment because it was so large and so piled up with overstuffed bedding of every description, even having a large bolster, that Tamar looked fearfully tiny and frail lying in it by herself. Denny had been sat with her since she had come home and he would stay here until she was better.
Downstairs, Stiles had found a TV set and was introducing Eugene to the delights of televised snooker. Cindy and Hecaté were in the kitchen, making themselves useful and showing every sign of being firmly ensconced for the foreseeable future. Stiles and Eugene did not know it yet, but it would be their turn in the kitchen tomorrow.
Denny knew they were still there. They would not leave again, he knew. Although nothing had been said, and probably nothing would ever be said, this would be their home also from now on. Perhaps it was for the best, and the place was certainly big enough. Each couple could take a wing each and never have to see any of the others for weeks at a time if they did not want to.
Tamar stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello you,’ Denny smiled the smile of a reprieved man. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, lots.’ She sat up.
‘You look better,’ he observed, and she did, but not the same, his worried eyes noted. She grinned, reading his thought.
She would never be the same, she knew. Her other brushes with death had not affected her in the same way as this one. This time, something inside had broken. Never again would she condemn weakness in others, she had been shown the inner weakness of her own soul, and it had taught her compassion, her pride was humbled permanently. Denny saw the change but did not know what it meant. He was not sure that he liked it.
‘What I don’t understand is how on earth you made it home in that condition,’ he said. ‘You were in Ireland you know.’
‘Was I? I don’t really remember much after the dawn came and I was so relieved to still be here. Then I realised that I was completely exsanguinated. I can laugh about it now, but I tell you, I never felt so stupid, not to have realised that if I did become human again, having no blood left in my body might be a bit of a problem.’
‘I should have thought of it, myself,’ said Denny. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you’re supposed to be the clever one.’
‘So, how did you get back here?’
‘I honestly don’t remember. I collapsed outside the churchyard, and I have an impression of a man bending over me …’
‘An old man – flat cap?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘Hmm.’
‘I have an idea that I asked him to take me home, but I couldn’t swear to it, I think I passed out. Then I woke up here. Denny, what’s the matter?’
Denny shook himself. ‘No, nothing.’ He changed the subject. ‘I wonder where Pierce ended up. Do you think he’s in Hell too?’
‘I don’t know. Probably though, from what he told of us of his past history, he was almost certainly a Christian before he was turned.’
‘Oh, who cares, so long as he doesn’t come back here.’ She didn’t want to talk about him, he saw. He changed the subject again. ‘You’re making a bad habit of this,’ he told her. ‘Almost dying on me, I mean.’
She smiled at him, and there was something in her smile now, that would never be absent again, Denny wondered what it was. That part of her mind was closed to him, for now.
‘This will almost certainly be the last time,’ she said. She cocked her head at him. ‘Although, never say never eh?’
Denny started. She was right – Askphrit was stuck in hell, Pierce was gone. It was over. What would they do with themselves now?
She picked up the train of his thought. ‘Back to ordinary heroing eh?’ she said.
‘That’s not even a word,’ he told her.
‘Certainly it is. Webster’s dictionary defines it as ‘Acts of bravery that ordinary people do, because they can. Whether they want to or not.’
‘Or something like that.’ Denny agreed.
* * *
When he went downstairs, Denny noticed a glow from the living room; he wandered in and saw that the computer was still on. He leaned over and touched the icon on the screen, it flashed up for a moment, before the screen went dark.
‘Close file.’
~ Epilogue ~
A
skphrit surveyed his new surroundings. He was surprisingly – no,
amazingly
calm. So, it wasn’t the Ritz, but his time in prison had been worse. Here, he had his own room, hot and cold running devils – mostly hot. No, not too bad at all.
And Satan seemed an okay sort of creature. He seemed inclined to treat Askphrit more as a sort of favourite than anything else.
He was jaded, Askphrit decided, he had been in this job too long. He did not seem to get any pleasure out of it any more. Security was lax and the torments done by rote – a mere matter of form, with little enthusiasm. Some of the devils, he discovered, resented this, and the fact that there was no chance, any longer, for promotion for the inventive and enthusiastic devil. There had been no promotions in hell for an eternity, he was told. He moved among the employees and inmates of hell alike like a campaigning politician. And he found out more about Hell than Satan ever knew.
He also employed a fiercely resentful Pierce as an extra pair of eyes and ears.
Askphrit had not been surprised to see Pierce arrive shortly after himself. ‘Thought they’d get you, without me to keep an eye on you.’ Was the extent of what he had to say about it. He did not bother to ask how it had happened. And he did not tell Peirce what had happened to him. That was the past, and the thing to do now was assess the future.
It was Askphrit’s nature to look at every place from the point of view of its strategic usefulness. This place, he decided, had possibilities.
COMING SOON