Vampirates 3: Blood Captain (13 page)

23

AN ALTERNATIVE TO BLOOD

Olivier had a suite of rooms, though from what Grace could see, each was as simple and monastic as the other chambers within Sanctuary. The door to his bedroom was ajar and looked as sparse as Lorcan’s or her own, suggesting that the “staff” at Sanctuary enjoyed no more privileges than visitors or those undergoing treatment. Another door opened into a small office. This, she was not surprised to see, was fastidiously tidy. There was a chair and small desk, currently clean of any papers. Behind it was a shelf bearing a neatly ordered row of files and ledgers. On the wall was some kind of wooden unit with cards inserted into it. It looked like something you might find in a hospital or library. Grace wished she could get closer to see exactly what it was.

“Having a good nose around, eh?” Olivier said, fastening a simple apron over his robes and tying it at the waist.

“Sorry!” Grace said, blushing. “I can never resist exploring new places.”

“No sweat,” he said. “
Mi casa su casa
and all that.”

Grace looked puzzled. “It means ‘my home is your home,’” Olivier explained.

“Ah,” said Grace, stepping away from the office doorway and toward the wooden counter where Olivier was now setting down a large iron pestle and mortar.

This was the largest room within his suite, and it seemed like a cross between a kitchen and a pharmacy. It was dominated by the large counter. The wall behind it was lined from left to right and floor to ceiling with shelves. They groaned with a cornucopia of glass jars containing spices, bottles of oils, baskets of fresh herbs, fruits and vegetables, barks, nuts, and other items which, for the moment, eluded Grace’s powers of categorization. A wooden ladder was connected to the highest shelf, enabling Olivier to climb up and fetch what he needed from the uppermost reaches. Each of the glass containers was labeled, but he seemed to know instinctively where everything he needed was located. It was like watching a pianist, Grace thought, as Olivier’s hands ranged across the shelves, swiftly selecting the various items he required, and placing them down on the counter, alongside the pestle and mortar.

“Pull up a stool, Grace,” he encouraged, as he lined up the jars and bottles and prepared to set to work.

“Thanks,” she said, doing so. “So, what’s in this salve?”

“Ground ivy . . . wormwood . . . beeswax, from our own hives . . . sunflower oil . . . green elder . . . ribwort . . . plantain leaves . . .”

As he named the ingredients, Olivier opened each container in turn and measured an amount into the iron bowl. He continued itemizing further substances but Grace lost track, fascinated at how he seemed to know just what quantity of each ingredient to add, without the use of scales, measuring spoons, or any other equipment.

Suddenly he looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you always make up your potions without measuring them?”

“I am measuring them,” he said. “Just not with equipment. I’ve made this salve many times before.”

“Very impressive,” Grace said.

He shrugged. “Not really. It’s a common enough remedy. Elder is the most important ingredient. Do you know about the magic powers of elder, Grace?”

She shook her head.

“Well, allow me to bring you up to speed,” he said, crushing the various leaves and twigs. “In Russia, they believed that elder trees drove away evil spirits. And in Sicily, they used it to repel serpents and robbers! Serbs used elder at wedding ceremonies to bring the happy couple good fortune. And in England, people gathered elder leaves on the last day of April and hung them on their doors and windows to prevent witches from entering their homes. And here at Sanctuary, we use it to heal external wounds and bruises, like those around your friend’s eyes.”

He began pounding the mixture with the pestle. Grace watched as the disparate substances gradually coalesced into a creamy paste. She wasn’t sure she believed in the folklore he’d just spoken of. Nevertheless, there was a certain alchemy in the way he had made the salve from its many constituents.

“It looks good enough to eat,” she said, as Olivier set down the pestle.

“Best not to,” he said with a smile. He reached for a small, empty glass pot and spooned the salve into it. Then he passed it to Grace. “Here, take care of this. We’ll deliver it to your friend later. I’ll apply the first dressing but then it will be your responsibility to do so, twice a day — when he wakes and before he goes to sleep. More often if he requires it.”

Grace held the pot of salve in her palm, pleased at the thought she could do something practical to help reduce Lorcan’s pain.

Olivier took the pestle and mortar over to a deep sink and filled it with hot water to soak. Grace watched as he vigorously scrubbed his own hands. Then he moved over to a vast copper pan, which stood on an unlit stove.

“What’s in there?” Grace asked.

“Come and see for yourself,” he said.

She slipped down from the stool and walked around the edge of the table. The pan was still warm, though there was no heat under it. Inside it was a dense purple red liquid, on which a thin skin had formed. Olivier reached for a ladle, broke up the skin, then gave the liquid a stir. As he did so, a rather distinctive and none-too-pleasant smell snaked its way into Grace’s nostrils.

“What
is
that?” she asked.

“Have a taste,” Olivier said, ladling a small amount into a cup and passing it to her. Then he took a thermometer, dipped it into the pan and took a reading. “It’s still a little warm,” he said. “It’s best drunk at around 98.6 degrees.”

Grace held the cup in her hand, looking down at the liquid. It was thinner than soup but thicker than fruit juice and there was something familiar about this particular shade of red. Suddenly, a horrible thought crossed her mind.

“Wait a minute. Ninety-eight point six degrees is body temperature.” She frowned. “This isn’t what I think it is, is it?”

“Taste it,” Olivier said. “It’s cool enough now.”

She wasn’t sure that she wanted to taste it. Not if it
was
what she thought it was.

“Grace, come on!”

She lifted the cup to her lips and, grimacing, took a small sip. It had a strange and rather bitter taste. The texture was very definite, too. It seemed to linger in her mouth and on her tongue. Most liquid quenched your thirst, but this was drier. It made her long for a glass of water to rinse out her mouth.

“You like?” Olivier asked.

Grace shook her head. “Not much,” she said. Then, she asked for the third time, “What is it?”

“Berry tea,” Olivier answered at last. “We make it from a blend of seven wild berries. Many of them are quite rare but grow here on the mountain.”

“That’s a relief,” Grace said. “I thought it might be . . .”

“You thought it might be blood,” Olivier finished, unsurprised. “It’s what we give the vampires during the first phase of their treatment here. Its texture is very closely aligned to that of blood, but more importantly, so is its biochemistry. It’s very high in minerals and other nutrients.”

Grace’s mind was racing. “You feed the vampires an alternative to blood? But doesn’t the deprivation from real blood weaken them?”

Olivier shook his head. “No, not at all. As you’ve seen on
The Nocturne,
vampires only need a relatively small portion of blood, taken on a regular basis, to survive. The quality of the blood they take is the important thing. Most of the vampires who check in here have been gorging on blood from multiple, often unknown, sources. A lot of it is junk. During the first phase of their treatment here, we need to get that blood out of their system and begin retraining their ideas about hunger. When we reintroduce them to blood, we focus on them taking it in a more measured way, from one known source.”

“Their donor,” Grace said.

Olivier nodded.

Grace was dumbfounded. “I didn’t think they could digest anything other than blood.”

Olivier nodded. “Oh yes. A vampire’s digestion is undoubtedly different to a living human’s. It would be pretty impossible for them, for instance, to digest solid food. The physiological explanation is kind of complex, but think of it this way. The body after death is rather like the body at birth. You wouldn’t try to feed a newborn baby a steak now, would you?” He smiled. “Well, likewise, a vampire can only digest liquid. And yes, in the long term that liquid must be blood. But the beauty of this tea is that it is similar to blood in look and texture. It satisfies their immediate need. And, as I say, it also closely mirrors blood in terms of its chemical compounds.”

Grace’s head was spinning. “Could they survive on this instead of blood?”

Olivier shook his head. “Not indefinitely, no. At least, we don’t think so. It’s an interim measure. But it’s a real wonder drug. Mostly, we use it to wean vampires off blood, but for instance, Mosh Zu tells me we’re going to start Lorcan on it, to build him up to taking blood.” He dipped the thermometer back into the pan and took another reading. “Ah! Perfect.” He took out a tray of metal flasks and began unscrewing their lids.

“You said that you give the tea to vampires during the first phase of their treatment. What happens next?”

As he talked, Olivier began ladling the tea into the flasks. “There are three phases of treatment here,” he said. “The first phase is initiation and breaking down the extent of the addiction to blood. The tea plays a part in this, but there is a lot of more important psychological work to be done. The hunger for blood, the obsession with the hunt — these are as much mental and emotional needs as physical ones.” He screwed the top on one flask and began filling another.

“The second phase is reintroducing them to blood, but in a new, measured way. During this phase, they will be given real blood, supplied by the donors on-site, but there will be no actual physical interaction between vampires and donors. The blood will be supplied to the vampires in flasks, just like these.” He screwed the cap on the second flask.

“It is only during the third and final phase of treatment that vampires and donors are paired up. Then, the sharing begins. That is the final preparation for joining
The Nocturne
.”

Grace nodded. “So the ultimate aim for every vampire passing through Sanctuary is to join the Vampirate ship?”

Olivier nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“But how come they don’t run out of space?”

“
The Nocturne
has as much space as is required for all who wish to travel in it. And besides, some fail to complete their treatment here and return to their old ways. It’s disappointing when that happens, but not everyone makes it.” He screwed the lid onto another flask and moved on. “And then there’s the occasional vampire and donor who complete the pairing stage of the treatment but elect not to join the ship.”

“Where do
they
go?” Grace said, puzzled once more. This had not occurred to her as an option before.

“Wherever they choose.” Olivier smiled. “Undoubtedly, theirs is the harder path, living amid human society and keeping their secret . . .”

“You really mean that out there, in villages and towns and cities, there are vampires living with their donors, among the rest of us?” Grace’s eyes were wide.

“It’s an intriguing thought, isn’t it?” Olivier said, his eyes twinkling. “Why, you never know, they might be your next door neighbors! How would you know? Other than that they never seem to age, and one is never seen to eat. But mostly, people aren’t that observant. They’re easily fobbed off with tales of fad diets and beauty treatments.”

Grace supposed there was no logical reason why two people could not live in “normal” society as vampire and donor. It was an astonishing thought.

“There,” Olivier said, fastening the lid on the last of the flasks. “All done. The tea will keep warm in these flasks for another few hours. We’ll do the rounds later, but now there are more pressing things for us to attend to.”

He began laying out more pots, pans, and knives on the table. Grace shook her head. Olivier’s duties seemed never to be done. “What are you going to make now?” she inquired.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m starving. I thought I might just whip us up some lunch.”

24

ROOM FOUR

Connor saw the flames burning in Jez’s eye sockets. It was as if they were about to consume his face. “All right,” he said, roughly wrenching off the locket. “All right, you can have it. Just get my friend some blood now!”

“No problem, dearie,” the woman said, her hands clamping on the locket and pulling it inside her booth. “Room seven.”

Connor led Jez to the red velvet door.

The woman interrupted her next transaction to call out, “You can’t go in with him. Wait here. There’s coffee and magazines.”

Connor was half relieved. As Jez walked through the door, he turned and his face flashed normal again, just for an instant. “Thank you,” he said. Then he was gone.

The half hour that Connor spent in that waiting room was one of the strangest of his life. At first, there was a steady stream of vampires coming through into the anteroom and handing over their money, before being directed beyond the velvet-covered door. Connor did his best to avoid eye contact with the clientele, but he was aware that every last one of them clocked him as they came through. Perhaps they could sense he wasn’t a vampire and wondered therefore what he was doing here. Or perhaps they saw him in more simple terms — as a convenient container of blood. He did his best to quell the rising panic induced by that thought. Reaching for a magazine, he turned the pages but found himself unable to focus on the content. All he could think about was this strange place, the curious path that had brought him here, and the danger that hung heavy upon him.

Connor watched the latest arrivals out of the corner of his eye. Evidently, the vampires were all kinds of people. Men and women. White, black, Asian, Hispanic. Young, old, and everything in between. What united them was the terrible hunger in their eyes. Few were in the extreme state of need that Jez had been in, but the same recognizable fire flickered in their faces. Each time he saw it, Connor thought of Jez’s earlier words . . .

“I’m not in control of my own body anymore — my own thoughts, my own needs. When the hunger comes over me, flows into me, there’s nothing I can do to fight it.”

Perhaps he had been too quick to judge Jez over his attack on poor Jenny. Jez hadn’t asked for this existence. He had died an early death as a pirate. Connor wasn’t sure what lay on the other side of death, but if it was supposed to be peace, then Jez had been denied it. Sidorio had intervened. Sidorio had brought him back into a new existence, a distortion of life. But now Sidorio was gone and Jez was left to carry his burden alone.

Connor wished that Grace was with him now. How could she be so at ease with vampires? His sister had depths of courage that he could only imagine. He reached up sadly to his bare neck, where the locket had hung half an hour earlier. He felt depressed that he had had to give it away so cheaply. As if he had somehow betrayed Grace. But what choice did he have?

“Do you want a coffee?”

He looked up to find the woman from inside the glass booth now standing before him. She was much smaller than she had seemed inside the booth, perched up on a stool.

“Coffee?” she repeated. “I’m on my break. And you look fit to drop.”

“Yes, please.” Connor nodded, surprised by the offer and the smile that accompanied it.

Moments later, she returned with a tray and placed a warm mug in his hands. “Help yourself to cream and sugar.” She took up her own drink, lit a cigarette, and sat down beside him.

“You’re not one of them, are you?” she said. “You don’t belong in this world.”

He shook his head. “No. I was just helping out an old friend.”

The woman nodded, blowing out smoke in a perfect ring. “I could tell,” she said. “There’s something clean about you. Innocent.”

Connor shrugged. He didn’t like to say so but he felt far from clean right now. Something about this place made him feel urgently in need of a long, hot shower.

“What happens?” he asked. “Behind the velvet door. In the rooms. What happens there?”

There was a pause as the woman sipped her coffee and inhaled her cigarette, taking a tandem hit of caffeine and nicotine. “What do you think happens, dearie? The clients need blood. And my girls . . . and boys, they give them what they need.”

In spite of himself, Connor was intrigued. “Your girls and boys . . . who are they? Where do they come from? What makes them want to do this?”

The woman settled her cigarette in an ashtray. “Well, I don’t imagine that any of them set out in life thinking ‘Ooh, I know what I’d like to be — a blood donor for vampires!’ But options are scarce around these parts. There aren’t many opportunities to make money . . . not nowadays. What makes any of us do anything in this life, dearie? Cash. The need to survive.”

“But giving blood,” Connor said, “like this . . .” He shivered.

“What do
you
do?” she asked.

“I’m a pirate,” he said.

“Oh, really?” She laughed, and it wasn’t a nice laugh. “A pirate. There’s a noble profession for you.” Then her face softened and she smiled at him, a kindly smile. “Bless you. You really
do
think it’s noble, don’t you? You’re that green.”

He didn’t understand her. What was she saying?

“Here,” she went on. She reached into her pocket and took out the locket. “Have this back,” she said, pressing it into his hand.

“No,” he protested. “It’s okay. We made a fair trade.”

“Shh, boy.” She closed his fingers around the locket. “You’re one of the good ones, I can tell that. It wouldn’t be right for me to take this. It’s been a good night. I can take a small hit.”

“Well, all right,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Oh, look,” she said. “Your friend’s back at last.”

Connor glanced up as Jez stepped through the red velvet doorway. It was the old, familiar Jez, smiling broadly. He looked restored, as if he’d woken from a long sleep and tucked into a hearty breakfast. He strode over to join Connor and the woman.

“Better?” Connor asked.

“Much,” said Jez. “I feel like a new man. Let’s get back to the boat, shall we?” He began heading out along the corridor.

“Well,” the woman said. “Go on, pirate. What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going after him?”

“Yes,” Connor said, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee.” He paused. “I’m Connor,” he said, “Connor Tempest. What’s your name?”

“Lilith.” The woman smiled. “My name’s Lilith.” She gave him a wink, then made a shooing motion with her hands. “Get out of here, Connor Tempest. Go back to the oceans where you belong.”

He nodded and smiled, then turned and followed Jez out into the night.

As they closed the door behind them, they heard a voice from beneath the rock ledge.

“Connor? Jez? Jump in!”

Bart had moved the safety boat directly beneath them. Connor jumped lightly down, followed by Jez. Immediately, Bart began steering the boat away from the creek. “Next stop, the Vampirate ship!” he said.

Back at the rock face, another small boat edged out from the reeds under cover of darkness. It had just one crew member. A young crew member, dressed in a beat-up leather jacket, who smiled to himself and couldn’t help but exclaim, “Well, well. This night just gets more and more interesting!”

Then Moonshine Wrathe set his sights on the small safety boat and began to sail after it on the next leg of its curious voyage.

A little later that night, another boat sails into Limbo Creek. Its sole inhabitant is familiar with this place. He needs no map to find the black door. He gives the bellpull a hearty yank. The milky eyes appear through the slit in the door, but he hardly registers them; says only one word.

“Lilith.”

When the door opens, he strides inside, straight along the corridor into the vestibule.

She is sitting in the booth, filing her nails. He approaches and she looks up, surprised at first. Then she smiles perkily. “I heard you were dead.”

He returns her smile. “Good. Then the rumor is out there. That gives me more time.”

“The rumor’s out there, all right,” she says, placing down her nail file. “And I’ll be happy to keep it buzzing.”

“Do that,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pushing a wad of notes into her booth.

“Someone’s doing well for himself,” she says, then holds one of the notes up to the light.

“All genuine,” he assures her.

“I’m sure,” she says. “Just have to check.” She pauses. “Had that cohort of yours in earlier. The young one.”

“Stukeley?” he says. “Excellent. Then all is going to plan.”

“What are you up to, I wonder?” She giggles. “No, don’t tell me. You know I’m a terrible gossip.”

He nods.

“So, are you just here to chew the fat, or do you want some blood in those thick veins of yours tonight?” she asks.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

“A pint? Two . . . ?”

“Unlimited,” he says.

“That’ll cost you,” she says.

“I know.”

“There’s the disposal of the body to think of. And hiring a replacement . . .”

He thrusts another stack of notes into the booth. “That should cover any
inconvenience
.”

She takes the money and stacks it on top of what he gave her before. She thinks for a moment.

“Room four,” she decides.

He nods, then turns and makes his way to the red velvet door.

“Try not to be too . . . messy,” she calls after him.

He grins. “Nice to see you again, Lilith.”

“You too, Sidorio.”