CHAPTER NINE
RAKSHASAS
T
he vampire turned to face them. Rue expected him to look like any other vampire, only Indian in appearance. Mostly, he did. Mostly. But it was in the vein of how a broad bean looks like a runner bean – different, but both still beans. He had thick dark hair, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion combined with the clear smooth skin indicative of immortality. His facial topiary was questionable, being one of those large thick moustaches that curved down and around below the cheeks before connecting to the hair above the ears. An unflattering statement at best, but not one he could really be blamed for selecting. It was probably the height of fashion when he was metamorphosed. Poor vampires – so obsessed with style yet often cursed to look decades behind the times.
The crew of The Spotted Custard had, at least in part, been assembled by a vampire. One might expect them to be amenable to a visit from the supernatural. However, it was clear why they stood arrayed against this vampire, for he was too different a bean.
This was quite possibly the most unpleasant-looking creature Rue had ever had the misfortune to meet. His fangs were larger than those of British vampires and closer to the front of his mouth so that they protruded, and could not be tucked respectfully away under the lips. And those lips, while well-shaped, were red and moist and curled at the edges. His eyes appeared sunken into his skull with circles so dark that the skin looked black. His fingernails were long and wickedly sharp and shone with some oily substance in the moonlight. He smelled of carrion.
All vampires smell of rotten meat to werewolves. Rue was not in wolf form, yet her inferior human nose wrinkled in disgust at the powerful odour. Vampires at home were not as obvious about what they were and how they ate. Dama, for example, always smelled of lemon pomade. He also had no moustache to speak of. This creature showed outwardly that he was a bloodsucker, with no pretence at anything civilised. The lack of artifice was off-putting, not to say embarrassing, and explained the crew’s reaction.
The vampire had an unctuous way of moving. His eyes were so full of malevolence that Rue actually thought he might charge and bite without even the courtesy of a greeting, let alone an introduction.
Rue stepped to the front of her group and pulled off her gloves. She was repulsed by the very idea of touching this creature. She would not want to turn into such a being, even as a lark, but she had better be ready in case it became necessary.
Quesnel took position on her left, pushing back his coat and shirt sleeve to expose the dart emitter strapped to his wrist. She knew without having to check that Percy had extracted the long sharp wooden cravat pin he always wore and that Prim had pulled out the tiny little crossbow she carried in her reticule and armed it with a wooden dart. All four of them had parents who saw no harm in training children to protect themselves. And all of those parents – whether supernatural or not – knew what form that protection should take when faced with a vampire.
The creature drew back his lips further and actually hissed at them like a rat.
“Pardon you,” said Rue. If one already looked as ugly as he did, there was absolutely no call for hissing.
He darted at her. Rue raised her bare hands. Her best threat to any supernatural was her metanatural state. Few immortals could face the idea of being mortal, even for a short space of time. It was what made Rue’s preternatural mother so universally despised. The idea that not only would he lose his form, but someone else would have access to it, was adding insult to injury. Where a soulless was merely the enemy, a soul-stealer was dishonourable, a defiler of the supernatural state. Rue was not just despised, she was vilified.
It was pure instinct which caused Rue to raise her hands in defence. And it was that very instinct which gave her away.
The vampire turned all his attention on her and spoke in broken English. “Soul-stealer. Go home. The Rakshasas do not welcome you here.”
It was so reminiscent of Sekhmet’s first approach that Rue wondered if this was the contact she was supposed to have met at the garden party. “Quite the unoriginal sentiment, I’m afraid,” she said.
“You are not invited to India.”
Rue sucked her teeth in exasperation. “I do not have to be invited. I am not a vampire.”
“Go home to your tiny island. Or we will consider this a breach of our agreement with your queen.”
Percy said, “There’s no mention of metanaturals in that treaty.”
Of course. Rue was pleased. Percy read it before we arrived.
“No, but she is like soulless. Like muhjah. And muhjah is forbidden.”
“I must say, like most daughters, I resent being accused of emulating my mother.” Rue jerked forward, pleased when the vampire lurched away. “Come a little closer, bloodsucker, and you’ll see how unlike her I am.”
The vampire only repeated, “Go home, soul-stealer.”
Percy said, taking a risk, “Actually, you yourself are currently in breach of the agreement. Local vampires are empowered by the crown as tax collectors, are you not? And we recently learnt those taxes have gone missing.”
The vampire hissed again. “Soon. We will find the thief and return your taxes.”
“Very well,” said Rue primly, “After you have done that, I will go home. That seems a fair bargain.”
The vampire growled something in his own language and slid off, moving as if he were skating on the promenade. He wore garments very like those of Sekhmet earlier that day, but dark in colour. As he slithered away, supernaturally fast, he seemed to fade into the night.
“What a pestilential gentleman,” said Prim, putting her little crossbow back into her reticule. “Not at all like Queen Mum’s vampires, I must say.”
“Although equally responsive to threats of paperwork and legal action, thank you, Percy.” Rue was grateful for Percy’s keen interest in local bureaucracy.
“The Rakshasas,” said Percy pedantically, “are a different breed altogether from our vampires. Much in the way that poodles and dachshunds are different breeds of dog. Rakshasas are reviled in India. Their position as tax collectors is an attempt by the crown to integrate them in a more progressive and mundane manner.”
Rue said, “Oh, how logical. Because we all know ordaining someone as a tax collector is the surest way to get them accepted by society.”
Prim said philosophically, “That’s the government for you.”
Quesnel seemed drawn out of his dislike of Percy into the science of the business. “Like Mr Darwin suggests? Vampires, like other creatures, evolved differently in different parts of the world?”
Percy was only too happy to elaborate. “That’s one theory. They are, after all, the terminal predator. Perhaps in this part of the world, to feed on humans vampires needed more fang and darkening around the eyes. Who’s to know for certain?”
“Very attractive,” said Prim.
“Some reports claim the Rakshasas eat living flesh as opposed to merely sucking the blood,” Percy continued.
“Like a moon-mad werewolf?” suggested Rue.
Noticing his sister’s repulsed expression, Percy added, “There are also stories of Rakshasas desecrating the dead and feasting on rotten corpses, but these may be more like our own early legends of vampires as monsters, before we got progressive and learnt the truth.”
Rue considered the way the Rakshasa had smelled. “Or maybe not.”
“Regardless, darling,” said Prim to Rue, “you are clearly most unwelcome.”
“Evidently. Shall we stay a while?” The two exchanged mischievous grins.
Quesnel rolled his eyes. “Lord save us all from beautiful young ladies too accustomed to the supernatural for good sense. You are pigeons in front of a hawk.”
“Poppycock,” said Rue. “I’m not beautiful.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Prim at the same time. “Pigeons have no natural predator except Rue.”
Rue added, “And hopefully Footnote. And, frankly, I resent being compared to a pigeon. Nasty dirty chubby creatures. Are you saying I’m nasty, dirty, and chubby?”