The Darkening Dream (12 page)

“You’d feel better if you’d come.” Sarah reached for Anne’s hand, but Anne pulled it away. “It was terrible, but it’s finished now.”

“I got ready,” Anne said, “but I just sat by myself in the parlor with the lights out. I didn’t see anything, and I’m still terrified.”

“Trust me,” Sam said. “You’ll sleep better knowing that thing is dead.”

If only it were so.

Only you can stop us
, Sarah scrawled in big letters that took up a quarter page of the journal — and didn’t need writing down at all. The five words had burned themselves into her brain the moment she heard Charles say them.

“Alex, tell us what you know about vampires.” Sarah glanced at the clock on the cafeteria wall. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes until class.”

Twelve:

Unholy Feast

Salem, Massachusetts, Friday, October 24, 1913 and Santorini, Greece, February 1906

A
LEX TOOK A DEEP BREATH
and adjusted himself on the hard wooden seat.

“My first encounter with the undead was at the age of twelve, while we wintered on the island of Santorini. It was February second — the night of the Ipapandi forefeast.”

“The what?” Emily said.

“Like Christmas, but different. When Mary and Joseph presented baby Jesus at the Temple. Anyway, we’d rented in the cliffside village of Oia, and the labyrinth of streets and the church square were lined with candles. Grandfather was busy, so I was alone, watching laymen reenact the story with candlelit effigies — Mary, Joseph, Simeon, the Righteous, and the Prophetess Anna — when this little waif, maybe two years older than me, appeared out of nowhere. She just hopped up onto the wall at my side.”

Sarah’s expression changed, subtly, and indecipherably — given his minimalist experience with the fairer sex.

“Her name was Maria.” He took a sip of his milk. Her skin had been like fresh yogurt, her black hair tangled, her dress ragged, her feet bare. She’d been beautiful, and they talked for hours.

“After services, she asked my help with an errand. I had no idea what needed doing in the middle of the night, but I’d have followed her across the river Styx to Hades.”

Now he could read Sarah’s expression — and it wasn’t good, but he continued.

“She led me across town to a small church, through an iron gate to a cluster of crypts. From between some graves she gathered up a rag-covered bundle then she took my hand and drew me into a central mausoleum and—”

“You followed her into a tomb?” Sarah said.

“Shhh,” Emily said. “I want to hear the vampire part.”

“Coming right up,” Alex said, trying to keep his tone lighter than he felt. “I heard Maria’s bundle make a strange noise, but when I asked, she silenced me. I was young and stupid, so I followed her down the dark stairs into a scene from a Rembrandt etching. The torch-lit sepulcher held marble sarcophagi, one with a throne of carved angels’ wings. An old man sat there, dressed in a robe of silver and blue, with a high hat and jewel-studded breastplate. To his side hunched a crone, dressed in rags and leaning on a stick.

“When I met his gaze, I felt rubbed thin, my will stripped. I found myself a mute spectator to the play of my life. Maria tugged me forward, and she held up the bundle: a swaddled baby.

“‘My lord Simeon, we present this child for your blessing, so that we might all be saved.’

“A dark radiance rolled off the old man as he took the infant and I still remember his words: ‘Now instead of releasing your servant, Master, according to your word, in blood; for my eyes have seen your damnation, which you have prepared before the face of all peoples; a darkness for revelation to my people, and the glory of the night.’”

“That sounds like a passage from Luke,” Anne said.

“It is,” said Alex. “A perverted version. I’d found myself in the midst of an unholy feast, a dark parody of the Ipapandi, and it was about to get worse.

“Simeon’s dark eyes devoured the torchlight, his hands became claws, and the mouth… you’ve seen what happens to the mouth. I was frozen. The old lady completed a similar metamorphosis, and beside me, Maria’s beautiful face had become the maw of a beast. They surrounded the baby and their faces and hands soon glistened with blood.”

Alex forced himself to swallow.

“When the deed was done, the old lady held the body aloft. ‘Behold, this child is set for the falling of many, and for a sign which is spoken against. Yes, a sword will pierce through your own soul, that the world shall be consumed.’ ”

“Oh, God,” said Sarah, her face pale.

Anne held her hands by her ears, as if she might need to cover them at any minute.

Alex licked his lips. “Their terrible feast complete, the teeth withdrew.”

“And you just stood there?” Sam said.

“For a long time,” Alex said, “I merely thought myself a coward. But now I believe Simeon held me in his glamour, my mind enslaved to his, and he no more worried about me than he would his own hand. For only then did he acknowledge me. ‘So, Maria,’ the master vampire said, ‘you brought us a second treat, shall we save him for the afterfeast?’

“The girl argued on my behalf: ‘Master, make him one of us. Give me a little toy of my own.’”

“That’s arguing on your behalf?” Sarah said.

“I’ll never know what Simeon would have done, for I heard a hissing crunch, and flames burst from Maria’s breast. She hung there, then was engulfed in fire, the light from her burning body illuminating the figure behind her.

“It was Dmitri, who lifted the pole he’d impaled her with and tossed her aside, then slapped me from my trance. Next he waved a giant wooden cross in the direction of the two remaining vampires. Their fangs had returned, but they slunk away, hissing and screeching as we backed up the steps.”

His story left the table in stunned silence until Emily leaned in.

“Anne told me your parents are dead. Were they killed by vampires too?”

“Emily!” Anne hissed.

Alex felt the blood drain from his face and that crawling feeling in his testicles, not so different from being kicked between the legs. Hard.

“They died while I was little, and Grandfather won’t tell me how. To be honest, I don’t remember what happened.”

Thinking about it, his skull began to throb and his brain felt thick as mud. The usual fragments came to him: terrible growls, thick mist, fire — he could almost smell the flames — and screaming, always the screaming. If he pressed deeper into his memory, his head would hurt so badly he couldn’t even talk.

When he recovered, he noticed Sarah staring intensely at a page in her notebook.

“These monsters crossed our paths for a reason,” she said without looking up. “We know they’re real, and it’s up to us to do something about it.”

“Do?” Alex hadn’t expected this.

“Yes.” She tapped her little book. “To stop them.”

Finally she met his gaze, her earnest face framed by dark ringlets. Hell, he was surprised she even believed him. And Sam was
grinning.

“Yeah,” he said. “Whatever made Charles is still out there. Should we go to the police?”

“My grandfather’s been down that road,” Alex said. “What proof do we have? A headless skeleton in a grave? They’ll think we’re insane.”

“Or involved,” Sarah said.

“As nasty as last night was,” Sam said, “we did pretty well. Let’s track the other one down and kill it.”

“Sam, I don’t believe this,” Anne said. “Sarah’s always on a mission, even if it’s schoolwork. But you?”

Sam turned away from her. “Who wants to do it ourselves?”

Alex watched Sarah, Sam, and Emily raise their hands. Others knew. They believed. He raised his hand, too.

Anne looked like she’d just smelt sour milk. “Crazy. You’re all certifiable—”

“Majority has it,” Sarah said. “First order of business is to find this vampire, the one that made Charles. Since we’re swapping secrets, I’ve got one myself. I was warned about Charles’ death.”

“What do you mean?” Anne said, glaring at Sarah.

“Remember that day on the pond? I was telling you about my dream. I never finished because we found the body, but when I met the living Charles I had a… vision, and I dreamt about it the night he died.”

That certainly sounded peculiar, but Grandfather had told him about a witch in Athens who could dream the precise moment of someone’s death.

“What did the vampire look like?” he asked.

“I didn’t see him, or at least I don’t remember,” she said. “I saw a tree soaked in blood. I think Charles died on it, perhaps upside-down. I didn’t understand it at the time, but there are connections between my dream and his death that just can’t be coincidence.”

He was about to ask her for details when Anne abruptly stood up.

“I can’t take this anymore.” She gathered her things and stormed off toward the cafeteria exit.

Sarah rose to follow, but Sam grabbed her wrist.

“Let her go. You said it yourself, she needs time to come around.”

He was still holding Sarah’s arm. All Alex could think about was how soft her skin must feel.

“I’ll shoulder the load for the Williams girls,” Emily said.

“Quiet, Em,” Sam said. “Alex, Sarah. What’s our strategy?”

Despite his concerns, he felt excitement kindle inside him. They were together in this. He thought back to the times he’d watched Grandfather and Dmitri track the creatures.

“Back home we’d get death records from priests to look for a pattern.”

“Here, those are found in Town Hall,” Sam said, “and newspapers have obituaries.”

“Good idea,” Sarah said. “I’ll also go through my father’s books for anything relevant. Who wants to help with the death records?”

“I will,” Alex said. If they came to the banks of the Styx, he was ready to wade right in.

Thirteen:

Indecent Proposal

Salem, Massachusetts, Saturday night, October 25, 1913

P
ASTOR
P
ARRIS FOUND THE
short man seated in the corner of the tavern. His invitation, delivered yesterday by a gargantuan colored fellow, had been quite specific. The Latin missive, scrawled on parchment with reddish brown ink Parris strongly suspected wasn’t actually ink, said, “My dear Pastor John Parris, kindly allow me the pleasure of buying you a drink tomorrow night, exactly one hour after sunset, Salem Tavern. Eternally yours, Nasir.”

Parris didn’t know a Nasir, but he had no doubt as to the author.

The man was dressed as at the church, in black with intricate black embroidery. His skin looked old yet young, smooth yet fragile. He had a little pointed beard and thin brown mustache that reminded Parris of portraits of his own pilgrim ancestors. His fingernails were yellow, as were the whites of his eyes when he looked up. He neither rose nor offered his hand.

“Sit with me, Pastor John Parris.” Parris couldn’t place the accent. Like the scent — cinnamon and almonds — it was exotic.

But he took a seat. The cruel edges of his grandmother’s cruciform bracelet cut into his wrist, and he hoped it was protection enough — if it came to that.

“What shall I call you?”