Perfect Shadows

chapter 15

Geoffrey pushed his way through the smashed window, easing himself into the firelit room, taking in the black candles and other paraphernalia, his nostrils flaring at the stench of burning herbs. His eyes moved to the pentacle and Marlowe on his knees in the center, empty hands cupped before him, empty eyes fixed upon nothing, with an expression of incalculable loss. Jehan’s wolf shape hurtled through the windows behind Geoffrey, his form changing before he hit the floor. The big man took a step forward but was held back by Geoffrey, who called softly to those outside. Sir Walter crawled through the window and glanced with some bemusement at a naked serving man where a beast should be, but dragged his attention to the pentacle. He drew a sharp breath at the condition of the unseeing form within it.” Christ Jesú!” he exclaimed, and that blank face turned to him for a second before the body crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving.

Nicolas soon followed the others in and shook his head at Geoffrey’s unspoken question before vanishing into the bowels of the house. Sir Walter had circled the pentacle, kicking over the braziers and stamping out the embers, then carefully rubbing some of the chalked figures out with the toe of his boot, muttering with disgust. He finally nodded at Jehan, who sprang to his master’s side in an instant, cradling the man in his arms.

“A thoroughly loathsome piece of work,” Ralegh growled to Geoffrey. “He was trying to conjure Cadavedere, a minor demon, ‘the eater of the dead’, into the circle with Kit.” Before they could explore the ramifications of this Nicolas returned, his mouth twisted with revulsion.

“You had best come and see this for yourself, Geoffrey,” he said tonelessly, leading him to the chamber that had served as Marlowe’s prison. Geoffrey’s soft cursing was the only sound for a time as he examined the room. He turned to his companion, cold fury clouding his sight.” It is worse, even, than you think,” Nicolas said quietly, showing Geoffrey the cup, its interior still filmed with the young vampire’s dark blood, and then held out the fleam. Geoffrey took it wordlessly and studied it. That it was not made of metal, as he had expected, testified to its purpose. He closed his grip on the instrument, breaking it to splinters, and cast the bits from him in disgust. Nicolas caught up the weapons and clothing from the corner, and, still in silence, they made their way back to the others. Ralegh knelt inside the broken circle beside Kit, who still stared into his empty hands, oblivious of Jehan holding him tenderly as tears streamed down his face. Geoffrey dropped down by Jehan and took Marlowe from him. “Fetch the saddlebags,” he ordered.

As Geoffrey and Jehan dressed the unresisting body, Sir Walter and Nicolas poked about the rest of the house, which was almost completely empty, and returned to the study. Sir Walter nudged a pile of cloth, almost invisible in the shadows against a wall, and gave a short startled bark as he rolled the corpse out into the light. “Aestatis Montague,” he breathed, as he stooped to make out the little man’s grotesquely contorted features. The eyes had bulged nearly out of the sockets and the tongue protruded obscenely, already blackening.

“You knew the man?” Nicolas asked, tautly.

“Knew of him, rather. He is, was,” Ralegh corrected himself, “a defrocked priest, and made a great study of demons; he probably knew more than any other man about Lamia and other such spirits. He was said to have known, by some to have been the model for, the original Faustus, though they were mistaken in the latter case. He studied a great deal in the East. I had not known that he was in England, or that Harry knew him,” he replied, and jerked around as Geoffrey returned carrying a cask of oil which he dumped out over the floor.

“One moment, your grace,” Ralegh cried, crossing to the table at the far end of the room, scooping up the empty saddlebags as he went. He began hurriedly to sort the books there, a number of which he loaded into the bags, and included the sack holding the herbs for the braziers. He nodded to Geoffrey when he had done, and slung the heavy bags to his shoulder. Geoffrey returned the nod, waiting until Nicolas and Sir Walter had climbed back out of the window before kicking the contents of the smoldering brazier into the spreading slick of oil, igniting it.

Jehan stood by the horses, holding Marlowe against his body before him, his arms crossed over his chest and held tightly at the wrists. There was a wildness in the unseeing face that disturbed Nicolas, and Geoffrey, assessing the situation, swiftly mounted. He reached for the man, to set him on the saddlebow, but Marlowe twisted from the loosened grip and ran, stumbling and weak from his long imprisonment. Jehan was on him in an instant, knocking him heavily to the ground and pinning him there, then looking helplessly up at the others.

“We’ll have to bind him,” Geoffrey said, raising a hand to quell the protests. “Yes, I know, but we have no choice. The dawn will be upon us soon and we must be home safe before it. Sir Walter?” Ralegh nodded and snatched a hanging from the window even as the fire caught it, throwing it to the ground and stamping on it before hacking it into long strips with his dagger. Marlowe fought wildly, his empty expression less than sane, but Nicolas was relentless, and the younger man was soon trussed wrist, knee, and ankle. They set him sideways on the saddle bow before Geoffrey, who spoke him gentle, noting the tears that ran freely down the left cheek, and seeped slowly through the stitched lids of the ruined right eye. The other two mounted and Sir Walter started as Jehan transformed before his eyes in the flickering light of the blazing house, but said nothing as they galloped into the night.



Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, sat in the shadows of the wood, watching the house burn. What could he expect of his life from now on? He should have questioned Marlowe further while he had him, he could see that now. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips as he thought of the outcry his victim had made at the branding, and how swiftly he had broken. Percy unconsciously stroked the swelling at his crotch, thinking of other thing she might have done to the helpless man, and other things he might have learned. Too late, now, but there could be other times, would be other times. A sudden doubt assailed him as he recalled with sickening clarity what he had seen that night.

It had begun routinely enough; they had sweptback the rushes covering the floor and had them carted from the room. The servants were dismissed, sent into the village, not to return until the following morning, and he and the doctor had scrupulously cleaned every inch of the floor on their hands and knees before bringing the unconscious Marlowe down from his confinement. His fetters were secured tightly to the rings let into the floor. It was not the first time that a sacrifice had been spread and bound there, although usually the rites did not result in the death of the victim, or at least not directly. He drew the chalk over the lines lightly inscribed into the wooden floor while Montague scribed symbols on the offering’s chest, and all was in readiness. They withdrew to await the proper time.

Later, Northumberland, watching from the passage, noted the futile tugs at the shackles when Marlowe awakened, tugs that soon gave way to a seeming indifference to the fate in store for him. That would change, the earl had chuckled to himself, when the vampire found the eater of corpses crouching on his chest! He had found himself trembling with excitement, wondering what would happen. The minor conjuration was nothing, but what would the demon do upon finding the corpse it came to feed upon was undead? This was the sort of question that teased him. He set the herbs in the several braziers to burning, and as the room began to fill with the fumes he quickly closed the remaining chalk lines to begin the ritual.

He had felt the portal beginning to take shape and grow in the circle, when suddenly it was forced open, wider than ever before, wider than Percy had ever felt. A shock-wave of power caught him, lifting him and slamming him with stunning force against the wall behind him. He slid dazedly to the floor, watching in horror as a shape formed in the circle; this was no minor fiend appearing before him now. This was a Prince of Hell.

The monster was eight feet high or more, leperously grey and scaly, patched here and there with tufts of coarse black hair. He turned a sulfurous yellow gaze on the earl, reaching for him with gnarled and twisted fingers, each tipped with a dirty and cracked black claw. Webs of filthy skin stretched from the abomination’s hips to its wrists, and upon seeing the circle restraining it the thing laughed, a thick, tearing sound, like a leopard snarling, showing the earl its broken teeth and yellowed tusks. The smell of it rolling out over the room was intolerable, middens and jakes and foetid London streets at the height of summer in a plague year. The earl pulled himself to his feet and pointed a shaky finger at the devil, bleating a question in Latin rendered all but incoherent by shock and fear. The materialization in the circle snorted its contempt, and turned to the man lying at its cloven hoofs.

Percy had watched in horrified fascination as it knelt to caress the helpless man, and seemed to converse with him, although he couldn’t make out what was said for the blood pounding in his ears. The fetters had been shattered, and Marlowe, far from fleeing the foul thing, had embraced it, had gazed at it adoringly, and hungrily kissed it. He himself had fled then, smashing through a window, running and retching into the night.

Northumberland’s gorge rose again at the memory, and he vomited until his sides ached with the strain. Was this the result of the exchange? Had he sold his soul without knowing it? He forced these thoughts away—after all, Marlowe had always been a perverse villain, lusting after damnation the way a normal man might crave a wench.

As he had bolted for the woods, he had seen the approaching horsemen, and was aware that one of them broke away to pursue him, but he had made the shelter of the woods, and the man had turned back to the house. He was not too far away to make out their identities, however. So, Marlowe’s friends had come to rescue him, had they? What would they find in that hell awaiting them? He had not banished the demon, he recalled, his gut twisting, sweat beading his brow. Well, Ralegh could do it, the self-righteous fool. He waited, and had watched them bind Marlowe with some satisfaction. The man had endured enough to drive him into madness, and that would suit the earl very well. He stood watching the fire for a few minutes, regretfully thinking of Montague. The little man had been of great use, renting the house and seeing to the special demands of the stratagem, but of course he would have had to die sooner or later, as would any who had learned of the vampire’s existence. The serving man and his son had already been dealt with, having met with an unfortunate accident on the way back from market late one night. The earl brushed off his clothing and began the walk back to his own house, some five miles distant.



Marlowe strove against the rags that bound him, but the knots were good, and Geoffrey’s strong arms held him fast. Presently he ceased to struggle.

Geoffrey felt him slacken, and the ashen face and blank expression troubled him. The long miles vanished beneath the pounding hooves, but as the dawn approached Kit grew restless, the remembered torment of his exposure welling in him, and Geoffrey murmured to him, gentling the man as he would a restive horse. Jehan, running on his own four paws across the fields, reached the manor first and as they arrived he, without bothering to dress, was preparing the bath in the heavily shuttered room Kit would occupy. Geoffrey and Nicolas brought the bound and struggling man in between them, and he quieted somewhat in the safe shadows of the room. Geoffrey, on his guard, cut away the rags that bound his young ward but Kit just stood there, and allowed Jehan to strip him and lower him into the waiting tub. The hot water relaxed him, and the day-trance claimed him within minutes. Geoffrey gave Jehan his instructions before he and Nicolas left to take their own rest.



Sir Walter made his way to his own rooms, stopping only long enough for a word or two with another guest, who had observed their entrance from the shadows of the gallery. When he reached his bed he threw himself down, not even removing his boots, asleep before his body touched the mattress. He woke late in the day to peruse the books and other flotsam he had rescued from the fire and that evening took his findings to Geoffrey.

“I am concerned about Kit’s—condition, your grace. I have examined the contents of the braziers that were burning around the pentacle, with disturbing results. Among the more usual herbs were hemp and blighted rye.”

“I am familiar with the effects of hemp, Sir Walter, but why blighted rye?” Geoffrey said, frowning.

“Francis Bacon was experimenting with it. He had an idea that the visitations of the Devil that plague some villages were in fact the result of poisoning. This led him to ingest some of the spoiled grain, and when he ran mad with what seemed to be a case of possession, his manservant called in Northumberland, who being a wizard, as the man thought, ought to be able to deal with it, as well as keep it quiet. Harry told me later that Bacon reported seeing everything from the devil to the dancing dead. Who knows what demons Kit may have seen, or thought that he had seen? I feel that this may be why he has withdrawn.” Geoffrey nodded consideringly.

“I thank you, Sir Walter. We will bear this in mind.”

Three days passed and Marlowe woke each evening with a convulsive start, fighting the bonds that no longer held him. Jehan would catch him, holding him until the struggling body relaxed. Sylvie would fetch Geoffrey, who would sit on the bed taking the man’s face in his hand, turning it toward the light. He was more than a little disturbed by the vacant expression. On the third night he raised his voice, calling Kit by name and slapping him sharply on one cheek. He flinched, but otherwise gave no sign that he had heard his name, or even felt the blow. After a quiet exchange with Jehan, Geoffrey left Marlowe resting with the large serving man on one side and Sylvie on the other, and retraced his steps to the small study where Nicolas waited.

“I do not know,” he answered the unspoken question. “It may be that Northumberland has broken him past healing. He has said nothing and is refusing to feed—” he swung around at an abrupt motion from Nicolas and faced Sir Walter in the doorway.

“Your pardon, your grace,” the man said smoothly. “I did not mean to eavesdrop.”

“But you have questions and wish answers,” Geoffrey finished for him, and Ralegh nodded, his eyes narrowed to ice-blue slits in his weathered face. Geoffrey indicated a seat near the fire and Sir Walter sat and began to fill his pipe.

“First of all, my lord, I do not know, nor do I care, what your natures maybe. That you are good men and that my old friend is well befriended in you in his great need, I have no doubt, so we may dispense both with those questions and your explanations. No, I wish to know what your plans are regarding Northumberland,” Ralegh said softly, gazing at the coals. Geoffrey, too, studied the fire a time before answering in a remote wintry voice.

“Were you ever raped, Sir Walter? No, I thought not, but that is what was done to Kryštof. No, I do not believe that the earl violated the man carnally, but what he did do was a rape of the very soul. I do intend to kill him,” Geoffrey finished flatly.

“And I have come, then, to plead for his life, albeit against my own preference. I cannot but agree that he deserves to die for what he has done, but at this time that could well see us all undone, myself not the least.” Ralegh shifted in his chair.

“Harry has changed, the thirst he had for knowledge has become twisted. He has had to live down his family’s reputation for treachery, confined to London as if the Queen and her ministers do not trust him out of their sight—as indeed they dare not. He has supported many scholars and poets, even Marlowe, in his time, giving to intellectual pursuits that energy that in others of his family has turned to pride and to treason. Let me speak to him,” Ralegh finished, seeing that Geoffrey was unmoved. After considering for a time longer his host nodded.

“I also desire to speak with him, and will accompany you.” It was not a request, Ralegh noted. “Nicolas will speak with Kryštof, when he is willing or able to speak again. Nicolas?” The second man shrugged his consent, and rose from his seat.

“He should not be left alone, and his servants have been with him all the day. I’ll bide with him a time,” he said and strode from the room, colliding with his houseguest, Walsingham, at the door. They exchanged a few quiet words and withdrew from the room.

“—he was always given to dark moods and sudden violence,” Sir Thomas said to Nicolas as they entered the room where Marlowe lay unseeing and uncaring on the rumpled bed. “Perhaps I can—oh Kit!” A cry was wrung from him at the sight that met his eyes. He slung himself onto the bed, gathering the abused man into his arms, ignoring Sylvie and Jehan, who slid from the bed and left the room.