Bite Me, Your Grace

Nine


Ben Flannigan breathed in the thick, fetid London air as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the dock. A city this size would be teeming with vampires, which practically guaranteed that he would have a great many kills here. Perhaps he would even take down an ancient. His breath caught in anticipation at the compelling thought.

He caressed his silver crucifix as he walked down the street, searching for an affordable but decent inn while glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was followed. He had so many kills to his name that the evil creatures would soon seek to discover his identity.

Ben expressed his relief with a whispered prayer as he immediately discovered an inn that appeared to suit his requirements. He ordered a room and a meal before adding a handsome sum in exchange for every newspaper that could be found. Ben had long since established a routine of checking the death notices for strange circumstances and the gossip pages for nobles with odd habits before approaching the locals for information. In his experience, dedicated research always paid off.

While he waited for his meal and the papers, he composed a brief advertisement. In the morning he would make his rounds to the offices of every likely publication and pay to have the notice printed at once.

A man of God is seeking a situation to exterminate nocturnal vermin. The fee is fifty pounds, half of which will be due in advance.

He checked the notice for errors and grunted in satisfaction when he found none. The advertisement was vague enough to discourage those with rat or badger problems, yet contained just the right information for those who truly understood the threat that loomed over mankind. And if some individuals mistook his use of the term “man of God” to believe that he was a priest or a vicar? Well, he didn’t mind in the slightest. He had been meant to be one, though the fools at St. Damian’s had failed to see that.

As the second son of an impoverished baron, Ben had had the church as his only hope of a career that would keep his belly full. For the sake of having one less mouth to feed, his father had him sent off to St. Damian’s priory school in Kilkenny every autumn after the harvest was in.

Learning to read and write had captivated him at first, but before long he began to crave something more. He admired the great power of the bishop. The man could bless anything he desired, pardon sins, sentence people to penance, even condemn someone to hell if he so chose. Ben longed for such power. He dedicated himself twice as hard to his lessons and soon became the shining star of the class. The prize neared his hand.

As he grew to adulthood, his responsibilities and authority rose. And as his power accumulated, so did his pride. Indeed, Ben was told that it was one of the many sins that barred him from consideration for the priesthood, although that vice wasn’t the main problem.

Ben’s strictness, verging on bullying, with the young novices wasn’t what caused the bishop to summon him to his quarters. Nor was it the incident in which he beat a beggar nearly to death after he caught the thief stealing bread meant for the Holy Sacrament. It wasn’t his fault that he forgot his own strength in the face of his pious rage at such blasphemy.

No, the final incident that had caused him to be called to the carpet and chastised like a recalcitrant schoolboy was so paltry that the memory still made Ben gnash his teeth. Someone had tattled to Bishop O’Shay that Ben had been seen pinching Sister Clarence’s bum. Bishop O’Shay believed lust was the worst of all sins and he was determined to stamp it out of his flock.

“But surely the nun should be the one to be punished,” Ben protested. “She’d been wriggling her charms at me like a ripe piece of fruit. A man can only take so much temptation.”

The bishop’s bushy brows drew together sternly, almost obscuring his eyes. “So Adam spoke of Eve and thus Man was banished from Paradise. I will not have a clergyman who is unchaste.” He advanced upon Flannigan like Moses calling God’s wrath down upon the Pharaoh. “Tomorrow you will pack your belongings and leave. Your time here with us is finished.”

“But can I not repent?” Ben asked, unable to believe the sentence heaved upon him.

“I think not,” Bishop O’Shay replied with a regretful sigh. “If your sinful lust were not enough, your other sins are more than sufficient to give credence to the wisdom of my decision. You have no mercy or compassion within your spirit. You are too quick to anger and filled with far too much pride. You had years to repent and turn to the path of righteousness, but you did not. Such a man is not suitable for the priesthood.”

By the time Ben had packed his meager belongings and left his room, word of his dismissal had spread throughout the entire priory. A classmate’s smug grin was too much for Ben’s frayed temper, and his fist connected with the lad’s face with a crack that echoed through the cloisters. A faint twinge of pleasure filled him at the sight of the blood gushing from the boy’s nose. No more smug stares were upon him as all hurriedly turned their faces away.

His good feelings dissipated the moment his feet began to trod the long path home. What was he to tell his father? How long would he be welcome at the small estate? His older brother was due to marry this year, and soon the land would be signed over to him. Where would he go then? Ben’s heart grew heavier with despair every step he took.

“I heard what happened, lad,” a voice called, penetrating his gloomy thoughts.

Donald O’Flannery walked beside him, and the understanding and sympathy in his eyes made Ben stop short. Donald was not a church member as far as he knew, but he was a frequent visitor to the priory and the school. No one was really certain of the purpose of the man’s visits. He appeared to run errands for another church because Ben had once seen him leave with jugs of holy water, rosary beads, and a crucifix.

“What do you want?” Ben asked, unable to keep the petulance out of his voice.

“Dinna be ashamed, my son,” Donald had said. “For the Lord in his infinite wisdom and mercy has a calling for such as yerself. There be many hidden evils in the world and ’tis the job of folk like ourselves to eradicate ’em. I see the makings of a fine hunter in ye.”

“A hunter?” He wondered if perhaps Donald was mad, but still the man’s use of the word “calling” intrigued him, invoking a faint thrill of hope.

O’Flannery nodded and loaded his pipe. “If ye’ll join me for supper an’ a pint or two of fine ale at the inn down the road, I’ll explain all.”

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets. “That depends. Though my vow of poverty has ended, my funds have not improved.”

Donald chuckled. “It will be my coin this time. And if you remain with me, poverty will be a distant memory before long.”

After the first pint, Ben was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I appreciate the drink, but this heap of blarney is a wee bit too much. Vampires indeed!”

With a strange smile on his face, O’Flannery raised a brow at him and ordered their glasses refilled. “Vampires,” he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “are masters of deception. They have remained hidden for centuries by pretending to be human…”

By the time they were finishing the third pint, Ben was torn between admiration for Donald’s ability to spin such a great yarn… and the slight kernel of belief that was sprouting in his breast. The idea that such monsters could exist right under the noses of civilization was horrifying, and yet the thought of becoming the hero who dispatched them was undeniably seductive.

“Do you have proof that these creatures exist?” he whispered, after the barkeep was out of hearing range.

Donald’s smile was a predatory grimace. “Meet me at the old St. Thomas cemetery at dawn tomorrow.”

The next morning, Ben felt silly as he greeted O’Flannery in the moldering old graveyard. He wished he’d stayed in bed until his headache abated.

“Now, I’ve been leaving this one alone because it hasn’t been bothering anyone,” Donald said as he opened the rusty gates. “Not only that,” he added with a wry grin as he chewed on his pipe. “There’s no profit in this job. But for the sake of your education, I suppose I’ll have to deal with the creature.”

He led Ben to an ancient crypt covered with ivy and removed a pry bar from his pack.

“Is there really a vampire in there?” Ben asked, still unable to believe that he was here participating in this foolishness.

O’Flannery ignored him and set to work on opening the tomb.

Ben’s pulse raced as he followed Donald into the crypt. Spiders and other vile creatures fled from the morning light. A pile of bones lay in a shadowed corner. The stone slab they had rested on was now occupied by a fresh corpse… or was it? Ben gasped as he saw its chest rise and fall softly. The thing was alive.

With speed and strength that seemed almost godlike, Donald pounded a stake through the thing’s breast with a heavy mallet and then cleaved the head from its body with one powerful strike of his ax.

Ben recoiled when Donald picked up the head and thrust it at him. “Take this while I drag the body outside.”

His gorge rose, but he suppressed it and followed O’Flannery back out into the daylight. Donald chuckled at Ben’s cry of surprise when the corpse began to turn red and smolder.

“Drop the head here,” he ordered as he pulled a jug from his pack, uncapped it, and circled the remains while pouring out the holy water.

“Amazing,” Ben whispered as he watched the flames engulf the vampire’s head and body. “Will you teach me?”

Now here he was in London, having surpassed Donald’s legacy long ago. And best of all, there were no vows of poverty, chastity, or obedience. Ben Flannigan was his own man, beholden to no one… and the money wasn’t very meager either.

His meal arrived and Ben lifted his glass of ale in his customary toast to the memory of his teacher. Donald had gotten clumsy in his old age. He didn’t strike quickly enough before the last vampire awoke and flung the hunter against the wall, shattering his spine and killing him instantly.

Ben had barely gotten out of the cave alive. The creature had been so enraged that it had lunged out of the opening and into the sunlight, grasping Ben’s collar. Only when the monster’s face and arm caught fire did it release him.

Ben shuddered at the memory, which still gave him nightmares. He’d never been to Spain since. Just as he was sopping up the last of the gravy from his plate with a crusty roll, a young lad arrived at his elbow, looking ready to topple from the weighty stack of newspapers he held. Ben took the papers and tousled the scamp’s hair, then gave him a coin. “That’s a good lad.”

He carried the papers and his pack up to his room, the excitement of the hunt rising to a glorious tenor.

By the light of as many candles as he could spare, the hunter read every gossip article in The Times, The Tattler, and The Morning Chronicle. He started on the oldest issues first and worked his way forward. Most of it was inane nonsense, such as who was wearing what, whose ball was deemed a success, what courses were served at this party or that, ad nauseam. But one name stood out in all this drivel, rendering his headache and strained eyes worth the endeavor: Ian Ashton, the Duke of Burnrath.

The gentleman fit the profile of a hidden vampire to complete perfection. He came and went unpredictably, traveled far more than the usual nobleman, and all of his so-called “ancestors” were so similar that they may as well have been the same individual.

Ben chuckled in reluctant admiration at the “tradition” for all dukes of Burnrath to marry foreign brides and live abroad until their heirs returned to the family seat. It was a perfect deception.

Now the duke’s disguise seemed to be on the verge of crumbling. Due to the recent popularity of vampire tales, Lord Burnrath’s oddities were beginning to receive closer scrutiny. If Ben were to catch this prey, he would have to act fast, before the London gossips frightened the quarry away. He licked his lips in satisfaction. The hunt was on.

***

Scallywag John’s was a deplorable hovel. The antithesis of its aristocratic counterpart, Gentleman Jack’s, the tavern turned boxing club was a haven for the working class. Old barrels functioned as stools around a splintery slab of wood that served as the bar. A few shoddily crafted tables occupied dark corners, but most of the place was standing room only on the filthy sawdust-covered floor.

Ian’s nose wrinkled against the miasma of sweat, stale beer, and dried blood as he pushed his way through the mass of shouting bodies. At last, the ring came into view. The structure was little more than a square of frayed rope strung through old dock pilings. The rickety craftsmanship didn’t matter, for men did not come here for luxury. They came to see the fighters. Ian was here for one in particular.

“And now for the fight ye’ve been roaring for.” A small, rat-faced man stood on a crate and shouted over the din. “The Ox is the challenger!”

A gargantuan mass of a man lumbered into the ring, holding his scarred fists up to the cheers of the audience.

The announcer waited for the noise to abate slightly before declaring, “His opponent is our own champion, the Spaniard!”

Ian grinned as his second in command, Rafael Villar, strode into the ring. The crowd cheered so loudly that the building trembled, but Rafe ignored them. His amber eyes were only for his adversary. The Spaniard did not need to hold up his fists to flaunt his scars. One side of his face and the majority of his left arm were covered with puckered, ugly flesh. They were burn scars from the sun, but Ian knew little else, except for the fact that the damage was so severe that Rafe’s left arm was nearly useless.

A bell clanged, signaling the beginning of the fight.

The Ox clenched his ham-like fists and stomped toward his opponent. Rafe watched him with bored detachment as he reared back to land a sound blow. Rafe shrugged away nonchalantly. The Ox snarled in irritation and charged forward with renewed determination. Ian smiled. The poor sod had no chance.

The Spaniard was truly a wonder to behold. He moved with feral grace and a quickness that had the spectators gasping. Ian was also impressed, but not with Rafe’s speed, for he was actually slowing himself down. His control in holding back his true preternatural abilities defied belief. Even with one functioning arm, the vampire could crush a man before he could make a fist.

Rafe’s current opponent, however, was as unaware of this as all his predecessors had been. With an arrogant smirk, he shot his fist up in an uppercut at Rafe’s seemingly vulnerable left side.

To Ian’s view, Rafe’s right arm moved lazily to block the punch. Then, with equal ennui, he tapped his fist to the man’s chin, dropping him like a mail sack.

The crowd roared as their unique champion was once more declared the victor.

Rafe’s gaze met Ian’s, and with a slight nod, he quit the ring. Ignoring congratulatory shouts and thumps on the back, he made his way straight to Ian and bowed with a flourish.

“Your Grace, would you care to join me in the ring?” Rafe’s lips curved in a strange sneer that was the closest thing to a smile he had ever been known to manage.

Ian sighed as everyone in the club doffed their caps and bowed. He preferred to remain anonymous in this part of town. From the gleam of Rafe’s amber eyes, the rogue knew it.

Grinning back at his second, he bowed. “Thank you, no. I fear you’d trounce me. Instead, may I persuade you to join me for a stroll?”

Rafe inclined his head in agreement as several banknotes were thrust in his hand by the proprietor. Both vampires knew he could not refuse the Lord of London. Still, worry creased the Spaniard’s brow, and though Ian wanted to reassure him nothing was amiss, he perversely remained silent until they were alone on the dark streets. It served Rafe right for announcing Ian’s title in such an inconvenient place.

“If this concerns Polidori, I apologize for not yet locating him.” Rafe pulled off the leather tie that held back his waist-length black hair, shaking out the mass to dry his sweat. “I believe the bastardo knows we seek him and is only venturing out in the day.”

“I am not concerned with Polidori,” Ian replied, gazing up at the fog-obscured moon. “In fact, I am considering calling off the search. His popularity is waning, and I’ve happened upon a more effective solution to keep society’s suspicions at bay.”

“What sort of solution?” Rafe eyed him warily.

“I shall marry,” Ian said calmly, bracing himself for the Spaniard’s outrage at the announcement.

Rafe snarled and let loose a string of Spanish expletives. “Dios mío! Why would you do such a thing?”

Ian sighed and related the tale of Angelica’s misguided foray into his home and its disastrous results. “And so, if I marry her, I may ensure that she keeps her silence about our kind as well as dissuade society from believing the rumors circulating about me.”

His second continued to curse. “Still, marriage? Have you gone loco? She could expose us all! Do you have any notion of the danger in which you are placing us?”

“Well, I can’t kill her,” Ian retorted.

Rafe nodded in reluctant agreement but stopped walking. His amber gaze turned speculative. “You could Change her.”

“No!” Ian growled, heart cringing at the thought of taking such an innocent away from family, friends, and daylight. “She is too innocent for this life and has such ambitious plans for her future. It would be monstrous to take that away from her.”

Rafe shook his head. “What shall you do with her, then? For one thing, she will not quicken with child, no matter how many times you lie with her, but the situation will grow far worse when she begins to age and you do not. At the prospect of such unhappiness, how do you expect her to hold her tongue?”

The Spaniard had a way of seeing the possible outcomes of any situation. It was one of the many reasons Ian had chosen Rafe to succeed him as Lord of London.

Ian suppressed curses of his own as he replied with feigned confidence, “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”