Vampires Don't Sparkle! (13 page)

“
No!
I’ll… I’ll tell you.”

“Speak then, demon. My patience is gone.”

Baron Larouche whispers the name of a man and a city. De Muur nods once, contented, then climbs back down the ladder. He is barely to the ground when the first rays of sunlight reach the garden and find their way to the man chained to the cross. For the second time this day, Larouche bursts into flames. His face registers agony, but he is determined not to give De Muur the satisfaction of hearing him scream again. Instead he summons his last strength to shout down to his executioner below.

“May my master rip your lungs out and feast on your heart. I promise there will be no mercy for you.”

“Just as there will be none for you… from
my
God!”

-----

March 09, 1870,

Letter, Simon Hesler to Arthur De Muur,

London, England.

I’m afraid I have grave news, my friend. Commander Fenton made a surprise appearance at the abbey last September and our little ruse has been exposed. He was furious with you and angered enough with me that I was thrown into a London prison for impersonating a member of the Templar Order. Former member, I tried to reason, but he was having none of it. Seeing as I hadn’t really committed a crime, he eventually had me released and I thought it best to contact you straight away. I have no idea of the commander’s plans, or what he may or may not decide to do with regards to you, but I felt I owed you this letter of warning. Bad days may be ahead, Arthur. Hope I’m not already too late.

Be well,

Simon

-----

June 18, 1870,

Wittem Castle,

Maastricht, Netherlands.

The sun is directly overhead, and without any breeze the heat is nearly unbearable. De Muur puts his back into the tedious shovel work and is soon soaked with sweat. Twenty minutes later the hole beneath the cross is large enough and deep enough to suit his purposes. Time to take what remains of the husk that had recently been Baron Larouche down. He’s nothing but bleached white bones, some holding together on the cross, others already heaped on the ground below.

De Muur is half way up the ladder when Hendrik comes running from the castle at top speed. He’s out of breath and clearly upset about something by the time he arrives at the foot of the cross.

“Sir… a messenger just delivered this letter for you.”

“You read it, Hendrik. I’ve got to get this demon buried and out of sight.”

“I have read it, sir, and you need to read it right now. It’s from your friend that used to be at the Abbey.”

“What do you mean,
used
to be?”

Hendrik hands him the wrinkled letter.

De Muur quickly reads Simon Hesler’s letter and then tosses it into the hole he’s dug in the ground. He remains silent for several minutes, thinking. It’s young Hendrik who speaks first.

“Sir? Does Commander Fenton know about Wittem Castle?”

“By that, do you mean will the Templar Knights be showing up at our doorstep?”

Hendrik can only nod.

“Yes, I think they might. Duncan Fenton and I were very close once, and he knows how much I love this castle. He may not show up personally, but I’m sure someone will.”

“What do we do then? Obviously we have to leave.”

“Not we, Hendrik, me. If they dig up some of the bodies in this garden, I’ll be swinging from the gallows soon enough, but no one will blame you. You’re just an employee and that’s all they need know. You’ll stay here and tend to the castle, as always. If I do not return, consider it yours.”

“But, you’ll need me…”

“Don’t argue with me. My soul is already lost but there is hope yet for yours. Whether I like it or not, this is a journey I must take alone.”

“But there are Templar Knights throughout Europe aren’t there? You can’t hide forever. Eventually someone will hear your name and know who you are.”

“Not necessarily. Not if Arthur De Muur is waiting here to greet whoever Commander Fenton sends.”

Hendrik is more confused than ever, but De muur simply points to the hole in the ground at their feet.

“We erect a marker here, beneath this cross, with my name on it in big letters so it can’t be missed. If you’re here and Fenton is told I’m dead, there will be no reason to continue looking for me. I’ll change my name and carry on as before, only this time I’ll kill the vampires where I find them. I’ve learned more than enough about them now. The time to hunt with a vengeance has arrived.”

“What if they dig up the grave, you know… just to be sure?”

“We put Baron Larouche’s bones inside. Those teeth will give Fenton something to think about, I’ll bet.”

Together, they bury Larouche beneath the blackened cross, and begin to make the headstone with De Muur’s name on it.

“Go prepare my things, Hendrik. I’ll need the stakes, crosses, holy water, garlic, and the silver chains… clothes and toiletries of course, but nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary. I must travel as light as possible and making haste is of the utmost importance. I’ll finish up here.”

“Yes sir, I’ll handle it. Just out of curiosity, what will your new name be?”

De Muur considers the question carefully.

“I honestly don’t know yet, Hendrik. Larouche told me his master can be found in Amsterdam, so something Dutch, I’d imagine. Van Dyck? Van Buren? Van… who knows? Don’t worry… I’ll come up with something.”

THE WEAPON OF MEMORY

Kyle S. Johnson

Kyle S. Johnson is from Dayton, Ohio and lives wherever he is at the moment. His work has appeared in anthologies such as
Dark Faith, Dark Faith: Invocations,
and
The World is Dead.

His favorite vampire film is
Near Dark
; his scent is seldom ever likened to that of a dead polecat.

–––––––––––

T
he ash is hanging perilously from the end of a man once called Gerwyn Bedbow’s cigarette. The smell doesn’t break his concentration, nor does the slow creep of heat bearing down on his fingers. He is locked on to the hulking wall of rust and decay on the other side of the river. The trees on the opposite bank, dying slow deaths from autumn’s touch, do their best to conceal it from him, but they are overmatched. That place has been there for nearly a century, and it will probably always be there. This morning, cold and desolate, it waits for him. And somewhere within that place, something else waits. He can almost feel it anticipating him. Something that is no more alive than this derelict colossus before him, a surviving relic of simpler times known as Concrete-Central. Burt is rustling around in the back of the Jeep, getting things in order. Gerwyn flings the cigarette and the ash flakes and disperses like fat snow.

“Not quite Castle Dracula, but it will do by a sight.” Burt is trying, for once, to ease Gerwyn into this. But Gerwyn never needed the prodding. He’s wanted this for days, every last one blended together, oranges and blues and so much red, all eventually becomes the deepest black. The Buffalo River is rolling lazily along in front of him, calm and steady like an untapped nerve. The sun is dragging up over the horizon, spilling light across the cold earth.

“Are we sure this time? You’re absolutely positive he’s here?” Gerwin says without ever looking away.

Burt comes up from the boot and leans in the driver’s side. “He’s here. It’s too perfect. Even when this place gets visitors, it’s far too big for anyone to find him. It’d take a good full day to touch every corner of this place.”

“If that’s the case, how do you expect we’re going to find him just like that?”

Burt claps Gerwin on the back and chuckles, maybe for the first time since the two had met. “Boy, I never said just like that. I said we will find him. Because we will. We’re not just anybody, no, not anymore. And we’ve got a good full day in front of us. He likes to play it safe. He wouldn’t risk being out too close to sunrise. He’s tucking himself in right now. We just have to bring him the bedtime story.”

Burt goes back to the rear and Gerwyn’s gaze is broken, something revelatory on his face. He fetches the small notebook and a pen from his backpack and under so many lines filled with so many words, some crossed through, some totally effaced and blotted out, he writes:
bedtime story.

Loss is a cruel old bastard. He’s a salesman who won’t take no for an answer, and if you don’t want what he’s hocking, he’ll leave it on your porch because he knows you have to go out for milk and eggs sometime. Gerwyn knows this, and he was given little choice in his leaving. He knows that loss leaves the widest expanse, a treacherous valley, between normalcy and the now. The only thing a person has to bridge that gap is memory. Memory is Gerwyn’s weapon, and like a sidearm or a rapier, it stands to reason that it’s as much a danger to him as it is to the idea of loss. But loss is a product of law; he’s an enforcer of rules. What he gives and what he takes, it’s never anything personal. Memories are sharp, even in absence of ill-intent. They cut the quickest and the deepest.

So he started writing, though he never was much of a writer. When he does, he keeps it brief, because he trusts his senses to guide him to the purpose hidden within every curve of the letters. And they do, if a little too well. He’s filled up four pages front and back, no more than a few words to a line. Because he needs to remember. Maybe not now, but someday. He knows he will need to remember how he came to be what he has become, and what he will become.

So he turns back to the first page where there is nothing. And on the other side of that particular page, nothing still. He cautiously turns three pages of paper, left clear and white, dividing the list of the now and a messy page with several words chosen and all but one struck through for proving insufficient.

All of this space provides an adequate enough buffer for him to separate his Gospel of The New Gerwyn from The Word of The Old World, a simple word that takes him to a place where he never wants to go, but where, in times like this moment, on a plateau high above the world looking down and seeing nothing but madness, he must. One word to remind him of why he is here and why he is going to do what he is on the verge of doing.

Fire.
Last Day
.
Home
.
Dinner
.
Change
.
The Thing
.
The Monster
.
Dead
.
Gone
.
I’m Sorry
.
The End
.

-----

She’s sitting there with him on the couch, snug under his arm. This is symmetry: perfect, burning bright. What’s on the television doesn’t matter, and it very seldom does unless it’s one of her programs. On the table is her celebrated roasted beet salad. She still uses the recipe her babushka brought from the old country, and it certainly looks lovely, but that doesn’t make the prospects of its taste or smell any more appealing to him. Gerwyn hated beets as a child, and age has not damaged his palate significantly enough to make them acceptable cuisine now. So he’ll nibble enough and then claim to be full with all the conviction of a child swearing to his principal that his grandmother had passed that morning and he was in no way ditching school to go to a baseball game. He fears that eventually, if she hasn’t already, she will realize that he is running out of babushkas to sacrifice to the cause of skipping dinner, and he’s going to have to bite that bullet. Because she will make that damned roasted beet salad as long as she’s living, and he can like it or love it.

He excuses himself and takes a shower. He spends what feels like too long standing under the faucet, letting the water rush over him, thinking about whether he’s ready to make the step. They’d joked about having children, she had always said she wanted two so that she could name them Broom and Sticks so that their little unit could be called Bedbows and Broom Sticks, because that joke just never got old. He is satisfied with how he will broach the subject as he towels off.
Honey, I think tonight you should eat my beet salad. I think it’s time you started eating for two.
Yeah, that’s a line he is quite positive she can be proud to take with her to break the news to her co-workers. And it saves him another night of self-imposed guilt looking at the nearly untouched plate and thinking that if he loves her — and does he ever, something fierce — he should eat it, and realizing that no love short of salvation in the kingdom of heaven could get him to wolf it down, though he thinks if Jesus loves him as much as those bumper stickers say he does, then he can shovel that stuff down himself.

It doesn’t dawn on him the moment he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and it doesn’t land when he takes it in for the first time. It’s a slow climb to comprehension, like analyzing a room and realizing something small is amiss, like a teakettle moved from the table to the counter. But the change in front of him is anything but small. Gerwyn and Beatrice watched plenty of horror films together on that very couch, and in each and every one, the lighting is dim or non-existent or alien, always altogether unnatural. Nothing bad ever takes place in a well-lit living room on the shaggy carpet of the floor next to a comfortable old sofa and a shiny new coffee table with one plate full of undisturbed beet salad on it.