Vampires Don't Sparkle! (11 page)

I listen and I repeat. “Gentoshu-san?”

“Yes, Jinan.”

“I have been researching pop concert tours through my wireless connection. The sort given by humans.”

“Understandable. Yes?”

“After our shows, will the young men and women who admire me — my fans – have a chance to meet with me?”

Gentoshu considers. “Why do you ask?”

“I offer the supposition that if I can observe human behavior in its full variety over multiple occasions, such exposure could prove beneficial to my development, Gentoshu-san.”

Gentoshu’s head bobs up and down. “That’s an excellent suggestion, Jinan. I’ll recommend to the company that, going forward, it would benefit you if we allow you to interact with other humans as often as possible.”

I inquire to my secret guardian if it is pleased to hear this.

Oh, yes, my special friend, I am very pleased to hear that. I could not be more pleased.

FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS

“Okay, vampire killers, let’s kill some fuckin’ vampires.”

–Quentin Tarantino,
From Dusk ‘Till Dawn

BENEATH A TEMPLAR CROSS

Gord Rollo

Gord Rollo was born in St. Andrews, Scotland, but now lives in Fonthill, Ontario, Canada, with his wife and three children. His short stories and novella-length work have appeared in many professional publications throughout the genre and he is currently at the end of a four book novel contract with Dorchester Publishing in New York City. His novels include:
The Jigsaw Man, Crimson, Strange Magic,
and
Valley Of The Scarecrow
, all of which are being re-released in brand new ebook and trade paperback versions through Enemy One Press. Besides novels, Gord edited the acclaimed evolutionary horror anthology,
Unnatural Selection: A Collection of Darwinian Nightmares
. He also co-edited
Dreaming of Angels
, a horror/fantasy anthology created to increase awareness of Down’s Syndrome. He recently completed his newest book; a horror/dark fantasy novel entitled
The Translators
and can be reached through his website at www.gordrollo.com or www.enemyone.com or through his agent Lauren Abramo at [email protected].

When it comes to vampires, he says, “For the record, I’m 100% on board with the statement Vampires Don’t Sparkle. For me, vampires have always been beasts; always been ruthless and nasty. They were created that way and that’s how they should stay. Romanticizing them is not only a bad idea, it also goes against the very nature of the legendary creature - changing them to the point they can no longer realistically be described as vampires anymore. Not sure what those pale faced, frilly-shirted things are, but whatever you want to call them they’re not for me.” Some of his favorite blood sucker books would be Robert R. McCammon’s
They Thirst
, Stephen King’s
’Salem’s Lot
, Richard Matheson`s
I Am Legend
, and James Moore`s
Blood Red
.

–––––––––––

“There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves,

no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what

we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they’re necessary

to reach the places we’ve chosen to go.”

— Richard Bach,
The Bridge Across Forever

June 17, 1870,

Wittem Castle,

Maastricht, Netherlands.

U
nderwater, the blood looks black. Dark stains polluting the already murky tank, dispersing slowly down through the gloom. Coagulating tendrils sink in ribbons, dead fingers reaching for the unmoving body chained to the bottom six feet below.

“How long has he been down there, sir?”

The voice startles Arthur De Muur, focusing on the cupful of elk’s blood he’s just poured into the tank he hasn’t heard Hendrik, his tall, rake thin young assistant, enter the laboratory. Unfazed, De Muur runs fingers through his wide shock of hair, his thick black mane already sprinkled with a smattering of white despite having only recently turned thirty-two years of age.

“Good. You’re back just in time. Coming up on two hours, now. A few minutes shy.”

“
Two hours!
Are you serious? Well of course he’s dead by now.
Surely!
”

A smile touches the corner of De Muur’s mouth, but there is no humor in it. Obsession, yes, a touch of madness, perhaps, but absolutely no mirth.

“Is he now? The blood, Hendrik. Watch and learn.”

The first twitch of the submerged body makes the young man jump and he struggles to regains his composure. He backs away from the tank as the body starts to thrash violently in its would-be watery grave, stretching and straining against the silver chains that securely bind it. De Muur leans in for a closer look. Having expected this reaction, he is calm, far more awed by this inhuman display than fearful. It’s the scientist in him.

Hendrik is clearly terrified.

“This is Devil’s work. It’s impossible!”

“Yes… quite, but I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Sir?”

“They can’t be drowned. He was just lying on the bottom, biding his time trying to fool us.
Fascinating!
”

The blood in the water stirs the body into a convulsive frenzy for several minutes, its hunger so great it is willing to shred the skin of its wrists and ankles in its desperate struggle to escape, to feed. The chains hold, though, something about the purity of silver robbing the body of its incredible strength more so than the lack of oxygen has. The submerged body eventually bows to reason and settles back into stillness on the stone bottom of the tank.

“What now, Sir?”

Hendrik has found the courage to stand close to his employer again, but still won’t approach the tank.

“What else? Drain the tank and try again. Go gather some firewood, lad. Lots of it.”

-----

January 03, 1869,

Letter, Arthur De Muur to Sir Duncan Fenton,

High Commander of the Order of Knights Templar.

Greetings, Duncan.

I trust and pray this letter finds you in good health. Another month has gone by and a new year has begun. I’m happy to report I’m feeling much better. Like a whole knew man, in fact. I’m studying hard during my stay here at the abbey – science, anatomy, mathematics, politics, philosophy, and yes, the good book, as you so rightly recommended. It has been three full years now since my unfortunate breakdown, and with your friendship, guidance and kindness, I’ve seen the folly of my earlier convictions. The preservation and secrecy of the Brotherhood is all that matters to me now and I look forward to the day, with your authority and great wisdom, that I can retake up arms and wear my Templar’s cloak with honor once again.

Your servant, and friend,

Arthur

-----

May 12, 1869,

Office of Sir Duncan Fenton,

Rosslyn Chapel, Scotland.

Commander Fenton sets De Muur’s letter down on his desk when he hears a quiet knock on his office door. Fenton is a Scotsman by birth, but has spent most of his adult life in France and Belgium, earning his knighthood for a lifetime of foreign diplomacy, representing the crown throughout Europe. Duncan peers at the door for a moment, as if he might be able to see through the sturdy mahogany and discern who stands outside. He takes an educated guess.

“Ferguson?”

“Yes, sir. You asked to see me?”

“Come in William… come in.”

William Ferguson is a tall, stocky Englishman with fiery red hair and matching beard. He proudly wears the white mantle of the Templars emblazoned with the red cross over his heart, a uniform still recognizable to all who see it, but unfortunately, due to the greed and stupidity of King Philip IV of France who disbanded and arrested the Order of Knights Templar back in 1307, forcing them into hiding throughout Europe, must now only be worn in secrecy and shadow. William, Sir Duncan’s second in command here at Rosslyn, is confident that will not always be the case.

Fenton waits until the burly redhead is seated, then pushes De Muur’s letter across the desk.

“I take it you’ve had a chance to read this, yes?”

“Yes sir, at your request.”

“Well… what do you think?”

Ferguson unconsciously rubs his fingers through his thick beard, carefully considering his reply.

“I’m very happy Arthur is doing so well. You know I held him in the highest regard until…”

“As we all did, William,” Fenton cuts him off. “But the past is the past, and as you know, I’ve been considering De Muur’s request for reinstatement in the Order. I’d like your thoughts on that possibility.”

For such a large man, Ferguson is looking smaller by the minute, shrinking down into his chair, deflating, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation.

“Make I speak frankly, Sir?”

“Of course. Speak your mind, William.”

“Very well… I’m against it. Arthur De Muur was a great Templar, perhaps the best I’ve ever known. Many people, yourself included I think, always assumed he would one day take your position as commander here. But then he… he changed, Duncan. I thought it was just a result of his wife’s illness that haunted him, but it was more than that. Much more. He scared the hell out of me when he started telling everyone about those… what did he call them again?
Vaspires?
”

“Vampires, William.”

“Yes…
Vampires!
Men and woman who drank human blood! It was crazy talk, sir. De Muur went from being a brilliant scientist and caring physician to a raving lunatic almost overnight. And remember the grail? De Muur even thought these imagined vampires were in possession of the Holy Grail. He had a plan ready to seek each vampire’s master out until the head vampire was revealed. Find him, and we’d find the Grail he told me! He stood in full ceremonial dress in this very room and tried to convince the council that these vampires were spreading all over Europe and Britain and that we needed to track down and eliminate them before it was too late? He wanted to restart the bloody crusades, for God’s sake!”

“I remember all those things, William. How could I not? Despite our age difference, he was my best friend… the son I never had. His decent into madness hurt me more than you know.”

“Of course, sir. My apologies. I don’t mean to sound judgmental… he was my friend too. It’s just hard to imagine him back in the brotherhood. The Templar Order is at a pivotal crossroads, sir, and if we ever want reinstated into our rightful position of guardians of the faith, we can’t afford to have a loose cannon like De Muur around.”

“Agreed. But what if he
has
returned to his senses? Think about it, William. What if he’s the Arthur De Muur we both remember from better days? Would he not be the perfect brother to spearhead our legitimacy plans to the Pontiff?”

“Of course he would be. No question. I think the council would all agree with that, but how can we trust him again? I mean… he was caught trying to drive a sharpened stake through the heart of the Spanish ambassador. He’d have been hung for murder if you hadn’t stepped in!”

“But I did step in, and the ambassador was fine. If Arthur hadn’t agreed to voluntarily live in exile at Mont St. Michel Abbey, I’d have had him locked up on the spot. Arthur was sick though, William. Overworked on the job and heartbroken from his wife’s ailment, he simply lost the ability to think rationally and cope with the pressures of the world.”

“And now you think he can?”

“Yes. Something in my gut tells me he’s ready.”

“I don’t know. I don’t pretend to understand the strange workings of the human brain but to me, once a man is feeble minded, he’ll always be feeble minded. If you’re convinced he’s better I’ll go along with your judgment, of course, but we’re taking a hell of a risk. If we’re wrong it could be a monumental disaster! You understand that, right?”

“I know… and that’s why I’ve decided to see him with my own eyes.”

“You’re traveling to France? Now?”

“Yes. There’s no other way. These monthly letters he sends and the reports from the clerics at the abbey are outstanding news indeed, but until I can meet him face to face, there’s just no way I can trust him again. I’ll leave you in charge here until my return… with or without our estranged brother.”

-----

June 18, 1870,

Wittem Castle,

Maastricht, Netherlands.

The flames are already licking at the suspended man’s bare feet, the heat severe enough to cause De Muur and Hendrik to take a step away from the growing pyre. Midnight in the castle gardens and everything is quiet other than the occasional snapping and crackling of the timber. The usual nocturnal chatter of birds, bugs, and animals from the nearby fields, conspicuously absent. Even the trees are quiet tonight, no breeze to coax them out of their silence reverie. Everything in the garden seems to be holding its breath, waiting, watching to see what will happen next.