The Vampyre (39 page)

‘Shelley said nothing for a long while. Even in the shadows, his face shone pale as mine, his eyes burned almost as bright. “Space,” he said at last, “wondered at the swift and fair creations of God when he grew weary of vacancy - but not as much, Lord Byron, as I wonder at your works. I despair of rivalling you, as well I may. You” - he paused - “an angel in the mortal paradise of a decaying body - while I . . .” His voice trailed away. “While I - am nothing.”

‘I drew him to me. “My body need not decay,” I said. I stroked his hair, pressed his head against my chest. I bent my head low. “Nor need yours,” I whispered.

‘Shelley looked up at me. “You age.”

‘I frowned. I listened to my heart. I could feel my blood crawling slowly through my veins. “There is a way,” I said.

‘“It cannot be true,” Shelley whispered. He seemed almost to be challenging me. “No, it cannot be true.”

‘I smiled. I bent down beside him. A second time, I bit into his throat. Blood, in a single ruby drop, gleamed on the silver of his skin. I touched the drop, felt it melt across my tongue, then I kissed the wound, and licked at it. Shelley moaned. I drank, and as I did so opened his thoughts - dissolved their mortal bounds - so that fragments of vision might glimmer in his dreams. My lips kissed again - and then left the touch of his skin. Slowly, Shelley turned to stare at me. His face seemed lit by another world's fire. It burned gently. For a long while, Shelley said nothing at all. “But to kill,” he murmured eventually, “to track things that laugh, and weep, and bleed. How can this be done?”

‘I turned away from him, to stare back out across the fields. “The life of the wolf is the death of the lamb.”

‘“Yes. But I am not a wolf.”

‘I smiled to myself. “Not yet.”

‘“How can I decide?” He paused. “Not now.”

‘“Wait if you wish.” I turned again to face him. “Of course you must wait.”

‘“And in the meantime?”

‘I shrugged. “You grow philosophical - I grow bored.”

‘Shelley smiled. “Move from Ravenna, Byron. Come and live with us.”

‘“To help you decide?”

‘Shelley smiled again. “If you like.” He rose to join me by the balcony. We stood in silence for a long while. “Perhaps,” he said at last, “I would not shrink from killing . . .” He paused.

‘“Yes?” I asked.

‘“If . . . If my path through the wilderness could be marked with the blood of the oppressor and the despot . . .”

‘I smiled. “Perhaps.”

‘“What service I - you and I - together - could give the cause of liberty.”

‘“Yes.” Yes. To share the burden of my rule. To consecrate it to freedom. To lead - not to tyrannise. What could we not do?

‘“The dawn is coming.” Shelley pointed. He glanced at me. “Greece is in revolt - its fight for liberty is begun - had you heard?”

‘I nodded. “I have heard.”

‘“If we had the power . . .” Shelley paused. “The power of other worlds - like Prometheus we could bring it - the secret fire - to warm despairing humanity.” He held my shoulders. “Byron - could we not?”

‘I stared past him. I thought I saw, conjured from the dawn's play of light and dark, the figure of Haidée. It was only for a second - a trick of my eyes - and she was gone. “Yes,” I said, meeting Shelley's look, “yes, we could.” I smiled. “But first - you must wait - you must think - and decide.”

‘Shelley stayed another week, then returned to Pisa. A short while after, I followed him. I did not like stirring myself, but for Shelley, I did it. There was a good deal of English Society in Pisa - not the worst kind - but literary - so bad enough. Shelley rarely came to see me alone. We rode though, and practised with our pistols, and dined - we were always the twin poles, opposite and yet alike, around which the world of our gatherings spun. I waited - not patiently - I never had patience - but with a predatory sense of expectation. One day, Shelley told me he had imagined he had seen Polidori. That disturbed me - not that I was afraid of Polidori himself - but because Shelley might recognise the truth, and be disturbed by the creature the Doctor had become. I tried to press him to make up his mind. I came to him one night. We talked long and late. I thought he was ready. “After all,” he said suddenly, “what is the worst that can happen? Life may change, but it cannot fly. Hope may vanish, but it cannot be destroyed.” He stroked my cheeks. “But first let me talk to Mary and Claire.”

‘“No!” I said. Shelley looked surprised. “No,” I repeated, “you mustn't let them - guess. There are mysteries, Shelley, which have to be kept.” Shelley stared at me. His face was expressionless. I thought I had lost him.

‘But then, at last, he nodded his head. “Soon,” he whispered. He pressed my hand. “But if I cannot tell them - at least give me time - a few more months - to be with them in my mortal form.”

‘I nodded. “Of course,” I said. But I did not tell Shelley the truth - that a vampire must say farewell to all mortal love - and nor did I tell him of a truth darker even than that. I felt troubled by this need for silence - of course - and even more so when Claire, through Shelley, began to pester me, demanding that I move Allegra from the convent, and return her back to her mother's care.

‘“Claire has bad dreams,” Shelley tried to explain. “She imagines that Allegra will die in that place. She is quite convinced of it. Please, Byron - her nightmares are terrible. Take Allegra back. Let her come and live with us.”

‘“No.” I shook my head. “Impossible.”

‘“Please.” Shelley caught my arm. “Claire is almost frantic.”

‘“So what?” I shrugged impatiently. “Women are always making scenes.”

‘Shelley tensed. The blood left his face, and I saw him clench his fists. But he controlled himself. He bowed. “You know best, of course, My Lord.”

‘“I'm sorry,” I said. “Really, Shelley, I am. But I can't remove Allegra. You will just have to tell Claire that.”

‘And Shelley did. But still Claire's nightmares grew worse, and her fears for her daughter ever more wild. Shelley, who had looked after Allegra as a baby, was sympathetic to Claire, I knew, and I could sense that the issue was coming between us. But what could I do? Nothing. I couldn't risk seeing Allegra now. She was five - her blood would be irresistible to me. So I continued to reject all Claire's appeals, while hoping that Shelley would soon make up his mind. But he didn't. Instead, I watched him grow distant and cold.

‘And then the news came that Allegra was ill. She was faint and feverish - she seemed to be suffering from a loss of blood. Shelley came to me that afternoon. He told me that Claire was full of wild plans, to rescue Allegra, to steal her from the convent. I was appalled. I hid my agitation though, and only let Teresa glimpse how unsettled I was. That night, we dined with the Shelleys, as we normally did. We broke up early. I went for a long, long ride. Then, towards dawn, I returned to my room. I paused on the steps . . .' Lord Byron's voice fell away.

He swallowed. ‘I paused on the steps,' he said a second time. ‘I staggered. I could smell the most delicious scent. It was more beautiful than anything in the world. I knew at once what it was. I tried to fight it - but I could not - I went to my room. The scent filled me now, every vein, every nerve, every cell. I was its slave. I looked around. There, on my desk, was a bottle . . . I crossed to it. It was uncorked. I shook. The room seemed to melt into oblivion. I drank. I tasted wine - and mixed with it -
and mixed with it
. . .' Lord Byron paused. His eyes seemed to gleam with a feverish light. ‘I drank. The blood - Allegra's blood - it . . . What can I say? It showed me a glimpse of paradise. But a glimpse was not enough. A glimpse, and nothing more, would drive me mad. I needed more. I had to have more. I filled the bottle with wine again, to flush out every last remaining dreg. A second time, I drained it. The thirst seemed even more terrible. I stared at the bottle. I smashed it on the ground. I had to have more.
I had to have more
.' He swallowed, and paused. He closed his burning eyes.

‘Where had it come from?' Rebecca asked quietly. ‘Who had left it there?'

Lord Byron laughed. ‘I didn't dare to think. No - that's wrong - I was too intoxicated to think. I only knew that I had to have more. I struggled with temptation all the next day. News came from the convent - Allegra was worse - weaker - she was still losing blood - no one knew how. Shelley frowned when he met me - he looked away. The thought of losing him steeled me - I would not do it - I would not succumb. The afternoon, and then the evening, came and went. Again I rode. Again I returned to my rooms late at night. Again' - Lord Byron paused - ‘again, a bottle stood waiting on my desk. I drank it. I felt life like silver flood my veins. I saddled my horse. As I did so, I heard a low laugh, and the smell of acid came to me on the wind. But I was mad with need. I didn't pause. I galloped all night. I came to the convent where Allegra lay near death. A guilty thing, I slunk through the shadows, unseen, unsuspected by the nuns. Allegra sensed me though. She opened her eyes. They were burning. Her fingers reached for me. I held her in my arms. I kissed her. Her skin seemed to scald my lips. Then I bit. Her blood . . . Her blood . . .'

Lord Byron tried to speak on, but his voice choked, and died. He clasped his fingers, and stared into the dark. Then he bowed his head.

Rebecca watched him. Did she feel pity? she wondered. She remembered the tramp by Waterloo Bridge. She remembered the vision of herself on the hook. ‘It gave you what you wanted?' she asked. Her voice sounded cold and remote in her ears.

Lord Byron looked up. ‘
Wanted?
' he echoed.

‘Your ageing - your daughter's blood froze it for you?'

Lord Byron stared at her. The fire had left his eyes; they seemed quite dead. ‘Yes,' he said at last.

‘And Shelley?'

‘Shelley?'

‘Did he . . .?'

Lord Byron glanced up. His face was still numb, his eyes still dead.

‘Did he guess?' Rebecca asked quietly. ‘Did he know?'

Slowly, Lord Byron smiled. ‘I told you, I think, about Polidori's thesis.'

‘On somnambulism.'

‘Somnambulism - and the nature of dreams.'

‘I see.' Rebecca paused. ‘He invaded Shelley's dreams? He was able to?'

‘Shelley was mortal,' said Lord Byron shortly. His lip curled in a sudden flickering of pain. ‘From the day of Allegra's death, he began to avoid my company. He spoke to friends of my “detested intimacy”. He complained of suffering from unnatural terror. Walking by the sea, watching the effect of moonlight on the water, he had visions of a naked child rising from the waves. All this was reported back to me. I thought of searching Polidori out, of annihilating him utterly, as I had promised I would do. But that, I knew, would not be enough. It was Shelley now who was my enemy. It was Shelley I had to confront and persuade. He had bought a yacht recently. I knew he was planning a voyage down the coast. I had to face him before he left.

‘It was swelteringly hot, the day before Shelley was due to sail. As I rode to his house, prayers were being offered in the streets for rain. It was twilight when I reached my destination, and still the heat was unbearable. I kept to the shadows, waiting for the household to retire. Only Shelley did not go to bed. He was reading, I could see. I came to him. Unnoticed, I sat in the chair by his side. Still Shelley did not look up. He was shaking, though. His lips sounded the words he read - from Dante -
The Inferno
. I spoke a phrase of verse with him: “Nessun maggior dolore” - “there is no greater sorrow”. Shelley looked up. I completed the line: “Than to remember happiness when miserable.”

‘There was silence. Then I spoke again. “Have you decided?” I asked.

‘Shelley's look of shock froze and darkened into hate. “You have a face like Murder,” he whispered. “Yes. Very smooth, but bloody too.”

‘“Bloody? What are you saying, Shelley? None of this cant. You knew I was a creature of blood.”

‘“But I did not know everything.” He rose to his feet. “I have been having strange dreams. Let me tell you about them,
My Lord
.” He spoke the title as Polidori did, with scalding bitterness. “Last night, I dreamed that Mary was pregnant. I saw a foul creature bending over her. I pulled the creature away - I looked into its face - that face was my own.” He swallowed. “Then I had a second dream. I met myself again, walking on the terrace. This figure, who looked like me, and yet was paler, with a terrible sadness in his eye, stopped. ‘How long do you mean to be content?' he asked. ‘How long?' I asked him what he meant. He smiled. ‘Have you not heard?' he said. ‘Lord Byron killed his baby girl. And now I must go to kill my own child.' I screamed. I woke up. I was in Mary's arms. Not yours, Lord Byron - not ever yours.”

‘He stared at me, his deep eyes fierce with revulsion. I felt a desperate loneliness sweep across my soul. I tried to hold him, but he backed away. “The dreams were sent by an enemy,” I said.

‘“But were they false, the warnings they gave?”

‘I shrugged despairingly.

‘“Did you kill Allegra, My Lord?”

‘“Shelley . . .” I held out my hands. “Shelley - do not leave me alone.” But he turned his back on me. He walked from the room. He did not look round. I did not pursue him - what point would there have been? Instead, I returned to the garden, and mounted my horse. I rode back through the burning night. The heat, if anything, was growing more cruel.