The Vampyre (22 page)

‘Lovelace shook his head. “ 'Tis no matter.” He stroked my arm, and his eyes were pinpricks of eager fire. I shuddered, but Lovelace mistook my disgust for thirst. “Red blood is fine,” he whispered in my ear, “but blue blood, sir - why, there is no drink on this earth which compares with that.”

‘I told him to go hang. Lovelace laughed. “You seem not to understand what you have become,
milord
.”

‘I stared at him again. “Not a thing like you, I hope.”

‘Lovelace gripped my arm. “Do not deceive yourself,
milord
,” he hissed.

‘I stared at him coldly. “I wouldn't presume to try,” I said at last.

‘“But I think you do.” Lovelace grinned evilly. “You are a creature wicked as sin. To deny that is vile hypocrisy.” He let go of my arm, and started to walk down the moon-white path to Ephesus. “Your body has a thirst,
milord
,” he shouted out, as I stood watching him go. He paused, and turned round to face me. “Ask yourself, Byron - can a thing such as you afford to have friends?” He smiled, then turned again, and disappeared. I stood where I was, trying to banish the echoes of his question from my mind. I shook my head - then returned to the room where Hobhouse was asleep.

‘I kept watch over him through the night. My body stayed pure and unstained throughout. This was the first time that I had drunk blood and not sweated out filth the next night. I wondered what this portended. Had Lovelace been right? Were the changes to me now indeed irrevocable? I clung to Hobhouse's company as though he were a charm. The next day we visited the ruins of Ephesus. Hobhouse poked at inscriptions in his usual way; I sat on the mound which had once been the temple of Diana, and listened to the mournful wailing of the jackals. It was a melancholy sound, as melancholy as my thoughts. I wondered where Lovelace had gone. I couldn't sense him among the ruins, but my instincts and powers were dulled by the sun, and I knew that he couldn't be far away. He would surely be back.

‘That night, he was. I had sensed his approach as he drew near to us, and I watched unseen as he crossed to Hobhouse's bed. He bent low over my friend's naked throat, and I saw the gleam as he bared his razor teeth. I took his wrist; he struggled silently, but couldn't escape; I pulled him out from the room to the stairs. There, Lovelace broke free. “You shitten salt-arse,” he snarled, “let me have him.” I blocked his way. Lovelace tried to push me aside, but I took his throat and as I tightened my grip around it, I felt strength flood me in a rush of joy. Lovelace started to choke; he struggled again, and I enjoyed his fear; at last, I let him drop, and Lovelace swallowed painfully, then looked up at me again.

‘“God's wounds, sir, but you have a mighty strength,” he said. “ 'Tis pity you are such a mope-eye about your friend.”

‘I inclined my head politely. Lovelace continued to stare at me, rubbing at his neck, and then he rose to his feet. “Tell me, Byron,” he said, frowning, “who created you?”

‘“Created?” I shook my head. “I was not created, I was transformed.”

‘Lovelace smiled faintly. “You were created, sir,” he said.

‘“Why do you ask?”

‘Lovelace stroked at his neck again, and breathed in deeply. “I saw you at Ephesus today,” he whispered. “I have been a vampire for a century and a half. I am deep in blood and experience. Yet I could not have stood the glare of that sun, not as you did, sitting in that open place. So I wonder, sir. I am sore perplexed. Who gave you his blood, that you can have such power?”

‘I paused - then spoke the name of Vakhel Pasha.

‘I caught a flicker of amusement in Lovelace's eye. “I have heard of Vakhel Pasha,” he said slowly. “A mage, is he not? An alchemist?”

‘I nodded.

‘“Where is he now?” Lovelace asked.

‘“ Why?”

‘Lovelace smiled. “Because he seems to have taught you so little,
milord
.”

‘I said nothing, just turned and walked back up the stairs. But Lovelace ran after me and held my arm. “Did you kill him?” he whispered. I shook my arm free. “Did you kill him?” Lovelace bared his teeth in a grin, and held my arm again. “Did you kill him, sir, so that his blood rose up, and fell on you in a shower, like the fountains that play in St James's Park?”

‘I turned round. My spine seemed made of ice. “How did you know?” I asked.

‘Lovelace laughed. His eyes sparkled with delight. “There were rumours,
milord
. I heard them by Lake Trihonida. I was filled at once with a desire to establish their truth. And so here I am.” He drew his face close to mine. “You are damned indeed, Byron.”

‘I stared into his pitiless eyes. I felt hatred and anger flow through me like lava. “Get away,” I hissed.

‘“And would you banish your own urgings as well,
milord
?”

‘I took him by the throat again and squeezed; then I flung him back. But Lovelace still smiled evilly. “You may have the strength of a mighty spirit,
milord
, but doubt not, you are fallen, as Lucifer, son of the morning, is fallen - as we are all fallen. Creep back to your ditch-water friend. Enjoy him - he is mortal - he will die.”

‘“Destroy him, Lovelace—”

‘“ Yes?”

‘“Destroy him - and I will destroy you.”

‘Lovelace bowed mockingly. “You do not know the secret, Byron, do you?”

‘“Secret?”

‘“It hasn't been revealed to you.” Lovelace didn't ask; merely stated a fact. I took a step back towards him; Lovelace melted towards the door.

‘“ What secret?” I asked again.

‘“You are damned - and you will damn all who are close to you.”

‘“ Why?”

‘Lovelace smiled mockingly. “Why, that, sir, is the secret.”

‘“ Wait.”

‘Lovelace smiled again. “You are journeying to Constantinople, I believe?”

‘“Wait!” I shouted.

‘Lovelace bowed - and was gone. I ran to the door, but there was no sign of him. On the night breeze, though, I thought I heard his laugh, and his whisper seemed to echo in my thoughts. “You are damned - and you will damn all who are close to you.” From far off, a cock crew. I shook my head. I turned and walked - alone - back up to the room where Hobhouse lay asleep.'

THOMAS MOORE,
Life of Lord Byron

JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE, NOTE WRITTEN
IN THE MARGIN OF THE ABOVE

D
read hung over my thoughts like a mist for the next few days. Lovelace himself seemed to have melted with the cockcrow, but his mocking reference to a “secret” haunted me. What had he meant, that I was doomed to destroy all those dearest to me? I stayed close to Hobhouse, and studied my feelings carefully - yet my blood lust seemed tamed, and my affection for my friend was as undimmed as before. I began to relax - and then to revel in the powers that my meal of blood had heightened for me. We set sail for Constantinople. Once again, my emotions grew thrillingly poetical. We were caught in a storm off the Dardanelles. We visited the legendary plain of Troy. Most exhilarating of all, I swam the Hellespont - four miles against an icy tide, from Asia across to the European shore - to prove, as the legends had always claimed, that the hero Leander could have achieved the feat. Leander, of course, had probably not had the benefit of a draught of fresh blood, but for all that, I was mightily impressed with myself.

‘Constantinople we reached in the teeth of a gale. We anchored with difficulty below a sheer cliff. Above us stood the Seraglio, the Sultan's palace, yet the darkness all around us seemed like that of the open sea. However, I could sense the flow of the great city on the shore; and the wailings from the mosques, carrying faintly to us over the choppy waves, seemed like summonings to strange and exotic joys. The next day, a small boat ferried us along the Seraglio cliff. I stared up at it, and imagined the silken delights that lay within the palace walls. Then, suddenly, I smelled blood - fresh blood. I stared across at a narrow terrace between the wall and the sea; dogs were growling over carcasses. I watched fascinated as one of them stripped the flesh from a Tartar's skull, much as a fig is peeled when the fruit is fresh. “Refractory slaves,” muttered the captain of our boat, “tossed from the walls.” I nodded slowly, and felt a dull ache of thirst in my bones again.

‘As Europeans, we stayed in the quarter reserved for us. This was modern, and full of travellers like ourselves - I hated it. I had travelled to escape my countrymen, but now I felt doubly removed from them. There was a wild music in my veins singing of darkness and the pleasures of the night, which I knew marked me out as a thing apart. Across the waters of the Golden Horn, Constantinople was waiting - cruel, ancient, rich in forbidden delights. I haunted the narrow streets. The close air was spiced with blood. Around the gateway to the Seraglio severed heads were exposed on display; butchers draining carcasses let the blood flow through the streets; dervishes, as they screamed in mystic climax, would slash themselves until the courtyards ran red. All these things I watched silently - but I did not drink. I imagined, surrounded as I was by these delicious fruits, that I would not feel the need to pluck my own. Instead, in the hashish dens, or in the taverns where painted dancers writhed in the sands, I sought other joys - and hoped, by sampling them, to dull my deeper thirst.

‘Yet I could feel it gradually parching me again. I began to loathe myself. The pleasures of the city only intensified my disgust, and I found that I was tiring of Constantinople, for its cruelties revolted me the more they reminded me of myself. In desperation, I returned to the society of my countrymen. I avoided Hobhouse - I was still afraid of what Lovelace's “secret” might be - but with other Englishmen, I tried to behave as though I were no different from them. At times, I found this easy enough - at others, the pretence would seem unbearable. Whenever I felt my thirst for blood grow, I would conceal my longing behind displays of coldness or rage - I would argue over minor points of etiquette, or cut acquaintances when I passed them in the street.

‘One afternoon, it happened that I met with a man who had been the victim of just such a mood. I had turned my back on him at the Ambassador's, and seeing him again, I was filled with a sudden remorse - the man had always been polite to me. He was a resident in Constantinople, and so, knowing it would flatter him, I asked him to show me the city's curiosities. I had seen them all before, of course, and endured my guide's company as a form of penance. At last, we ended up beneath the Seraglio walls.

‘My companion glanced at me. “You know,” he asked, “that in three days' time, we are to be granted an audience with the Sultan himself? So sad - don't you think, Byron? - that we will see only a fraction of the palace's delights.” He pointed up at where the harem lay. “A thousand women . . .” He tittered nervously, then glanced at me again. “They say that the Sultan is not even that way inclined.” I nodded shortly. The perfume of blood was in the air - on dunghills before the Seraglio walls, headless corpses were being gnawed at by dogs. I felt sickened and aroused. “Are you - fond - of women?” my companion asked. I swallowed and shook my head without understanding him, then wheeled my horse round, and cantered away.

‘It was evening now, and the minarets were pricking a blood-red sky. I felt dizzy with unacted desires. I asked my companion to leave me, and then I rode alone by the great city walls, which for fourteen hundred years had loomed massive above the city of Constantine. But they were mouldering now, and deserted, and I had soon left all human settlements behind; instead, I was surrounded by burial-grounds, wild with ivy and cypress trees, and quite empty, it seemed. Then I heard a rustling, and saw two goats scamper through the bushes ahead of me. The smell of their fear hung delicious in the air. I paused, and dismounted. The fever was on me. The scent of blood lay rich and heavy in the shadows. I glanced up at the moon. It was full, I noticed for the first time, glimmering palely over the waters of the Bosporus.

‘“I say, Byron . . .”

‘I looked round. It was my companion from the Seraglio. He saw my face, and stammered something, then fell into silence.

‘I stared at him, dizzy with desire for his blood. “What do you want?” I whispered slowly.

‘“I . . . I was wondering if . . .” He fell silent again. I smiled. Suddenly, I recognised what I had chosen to ignore all day, his longing for me, intermingled now with a paralysing terror which he barely understood. I crossed to him. I stroked his cheek. My nail drew blood. I opened my mouth. Nervously, and then with a sudden desperate sob, the man reached up to kiss me. I took him in my arms, felt his heart beating against my chest. I tasted the blood from his scratched cheek, opened my mouth a second time - and then pushed him violently back onto the path.

‘“Byron?” he quavered.

‘“Get away,” I said coldly.

‘“But . . . Byron . . .”

‘“Get away!” I screamed. “If you value your life - for God's sake, get away!”

‘The man stared up at me, then scrabbled to his feet. It seemed he couldn't bear to look away from my eyes, but he hurried backwards all the same, as though struggling to break from the spell of my face; finally, reaching his horse, he mounted it and galloped down the path. I breathed in deeply; then cursed under my breath. My veins, disappointed in their expectation of blood, seemed to be pulsing and shuddering; my very brain seemed dry with thirst. I mounted my own horse, and spurred it forwards. If I rode fast enough, I would surely catch my prey before he left the tombs.