VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 13, CONTINUED FROM 20/03/11

CHAPTER 13.


Did He who made the lamb make thee…

John Harvey remembered his reading of Blake as his enemies marched into the room

A tall, fragile looking man with trim, but thinning blonde hair and a short beard, wearing an immaculate evening suit and a look of utter distain. The Count de Sainte Germaine, appearing unchanged after centuries. Despite his thinning hair and slight build, there was an odd robustness about him. A spectator would have guesses his age to be at around forty years old, as they would have guesses a hundred years ago, or a hundred years before that, or a hundred years before that. On his flank was the white skinned man in the white suit, his face a mask of hatred. Behind him two of the largest men anyone in the room had ever seen, like shaved, undead gorillas forced into evening suits.

The two giants flanked the door like sentries, trying to stare down the bikers. The Count and the man in white advanced to the bar, where John met them.

“John Harvey I gather,” the Count said, his voice slick with French accent and at the same time dry like an old, old man. “I am The Count de Saint Germaine, come to take my debt.”

“This is my pub, Germaine,” John stood At Ease like a Guardsman as he spoke. “And you and your men are barred. Get out.”

For a second, The Count snarled, his civilised persona replaced by the beast. Then he smiled.

“This is my pub now, Harvey. The beginning of the debt which you owe me. Hand over the keys and walk away.”

“Get out.”

The Count took a step closer, so that his face was a foot from John’s, with only the bar between them. The man in white stood rigid, staring unnervingly into John’s eyes. The two gorillas in suits paced forward, there huge hands locked in fists.

“Or what?” The Count asked softly.

In a single fluid motion, John drew his sword, swung it up, and pointed it to The Count’s throat. The point of the blade touched his neck, and John’s arm was bent, poised like a spring to strike.

With equally fast reflexes, The Count reached into his inside pocket-

-Just as Tony appeared from nowhere, wielding a bar stole which he smashed over The Count’s head. The Count fell to the ground, unfired pistol falling from his hand. Wooden shrapnel flew at the man in white, forcing him to stagger back in shock.

Tony held one remaining leg of the stole like a javelin, ready to push the improvised stake into The Count’s heart.

The man in white recovered and pulled a tiny revolver from his belt and pointed it at Tony.

The two giant thugs both advanced and produced pistols. One aimed at Tony. One aimed at John.

“If you shoot Tony, your’re all fuckin’ dead!” one of the bikers shouted.

All the bikers where on their feet and inside the pub. One had a revolver. Three had sawn-off-shotguns. The rest held knifes or baseball bats.

Molly and Charlotte were on their feet. Molly had a knife aimed to throw and Charlotte had produced an axe from her handbag. Olly had his spanner in one hand and a bottle in the other. Dave, having seen its effective use as a weapon, held a stole.

“Every one put their bloody guns down,” John said.

“Fire away! I cannot die,” cried The Count.

His men were less sure.

The giants looked around at all the guns pointed at them and lowered their weapons.

Tony stared down at The Count, his face hard as iron, his stake ready.

The man in white kept his gun trained on Tony.

At that moment, Victoria walked in. She gasped, but held her ground.

In a moment Molly and Charlotte were beside her, standing between her and the giants, weapons in hand.

The giants did not know what to do. Things were moving too quickly. They weren’t being paid enough for this. One of them raised his gun and pointed it vaguely at Tony, the other turned to the girls but kept his weapon down.

“Tell your men to back down, or you all die,” The Count hissed at Tony from a bleeding and broken face.

“Fuck off. My lads are good,” Tony stated.

“Stop pointing guns at my mate or I’m going to start shooting!” one of the bikers shouted.

The man in the white suit’s hands started to shake. John noticed that the safety catch was still on his revolver.

The giants dropped their guns.

John vaulted across the bat, striking the man in white’s arm, causing him to drop his gun. As he landed he struck the man in white with the flat of his blade, knocking him down. Then he kick The Count’s gun across the floor towards Olly. The Count was at his feet.

Olly picked up the gun and held it over the fallen body of the man in white.

“Right, you two get against the wall,” he told the giants.

The bikers kept their guns trained on the big men. Molly collected their pistols from the floor. Charlotte stood with one arm protectively around a silent Victoria, and with her axe in the other.

“This is over Germaine,” John told him.

“This is not over. Give me what is mine,” The Count snarled.

“Can I kill the stupid bastard?” Tony asked.

“No.”

“Let me at the arsehole,” Molly snapped.

“No.”

“Silly girl,” The Count hissed at her.

Molly ran over to behind the bar, trampling The Count on the way, and came back with her hockey stick. She began laying into him like some savage Amazon.

The man in white tried to move, so Olly hit him with his spanner. The giants stared at the ground- they knew they had lost. Tony relaxed.

John sighed and took a step back.

“I’m going to allow this,” he said to the room in general.

Molly hacked away. Her stick red with blood. There were audible cracks as bones broke. The hockey stick rose and fell, again and again.

“I think that’s enough, darling,” Charlotte said.

Molly stopped, wiped her pretty brow and looked down at her work. The Count was a mess, and probably unconscious, but he would live.

“You two,” John pointed his sword at the big men. “Get your boss and his messenger out of here, and don’t ever let me see you again.”

The giants did as they were ordered. Moving awkwardly amongst the armed bikers, they picked up The Count and the man in white and carried them away.

It was only then that John really noticed Victoria. He leaned his sword against the bar, picked up the bunch of lilies and strode over to her.

“Good evening Victoria,” he said, presenting the flowers.

“Good evening Mister Harvey,” she replied calmly. “I expected your tavern to be interesting, but not quite this interesting.”

“It’s not normally like this. Sorry lady.”

“I see,” she said with a warm smile as she inspected the flowers.

“Please take a seat, I shall get you a drink whilst we tidy up this mess.”

“Thank you.”

Victoria sat with Charlotte, who had returned her axe to her handbag and looked as though she was perfectly at home with the situation; because, on the grand scheme of things, she was. John puts his sword away, poured her a glass of wine and then asked Molly and Olly to tidy the pub.

“What should I do with all the guns?” Olly asked him.

“Do you want some more guns Tony?” John enquired.

“Alright, cheers son,” Tony replied. “You might want to keep one yourself though…”

John had always been more keen on blades than guns, and tried to keep on the convenient side of the law, but when he considered recent evens he thought it prudent to keep one.

“Right you are Tony,” he said, handing over all of the guns except for the small revolver which he put in his pocket. “You and your men are drinking for free tonight.”

“Cheers.”

Like some medieval king with his hoard, Tony distributed the remaining guns amongst his best men. John mopped up the blood whilst Molly and Olly had cleared the broken bar stole and put the room back in order.

“Are you okay?” Charlotte asked Victoria.

“Yes, but I was a little afraid before, when there were so many guns,” Victoria blushed a little. “Where you not afraid, Charlotte?”

“No,” Charlotte replied in a matter of fact manner. “I am Freya’s woman, I shall die when She pleases.”

When things were back as they should be, he joined Victoria.

“Am terribly sorry,” he said to her. “Did not want you to be involved in this.”

“Actually, I thought it was all rather dashing,” she said.

“Really?”

“Quite. A pleasant diversion from the monotony of work… But may I ask what on earth it was all about?”

“One of those men was an enemy of mine from a long time ago. He was trying to take my tavern away from me, amongst over things.”

“How terrible. It did not look like he will be bothering you again.”

“Certainly hope not. Would you like another drink?”

“No thanks you, a stroll to the graveyard you mentioned would be nice thought.”

“Ought to stay here until closing and-

“Molly and I will look after things here,” Charlotte interrupted. “Get your selves gone.”

John thanked everyone in the pub and told them to have a good night, then left with Victoria. As soon as they were outside she took his hand, and they strolled off into the night.



Victoria and John sat hand in hand against an ancient yew tree, its massive roots forming a rugged armchair for them. Beside them stood an old grave stone which tree roots had grown around and pushed to an absurd angle. More grave stones stood on the gently sloping ground before them, most of which were cracked or coated in moss. Beyond that stood a large Victorian mausoleum, more trees of yew and oak, and yet more age worn grave stones.

“I was around in The Great War,” he told her. “I remembered only a few days ago.”

She looked up at him and smiled, clasping his hand tighter.

“I thought somehow that you would have been,” she said. “How did you remember?”

“A plane flew overhead, in my mind in was a biplane, and I was in the trenches. It lasted only a moment. It was not good. Remember nothing more…How can one forget an entire life time, it is so strange.”

“So many things in this world are so strange.”

“Aye. Wish that I had known you then.”

“Maybe you did.”

“I would not have forgotten you.”

She kissed him then, briefly, on the lips.

Then they just sat together in the night. A Wood-pigeon hooted in the trees, and far away a cat’s bell jingled.

“I do not understand how our kind can be soldiers, surely you must fight in the light,” she said. “My grandfather was not like us, of course, if he knew of us or that I was different, he kept it to himself. But so many of us have fought over the years…”

“Much of a soldier’s work is done at night. Lloyd and I used to scout for your grandfather, ranging ahead of the army, fighting the French in the night. Sometimes we wore smoked glasses in the day time. We still kept grace with God back then, the light did not hurt as much. At Waterloo, I did not notice the sun at all, we were too busy…. At Agincourt, I was still living as a human…”

“Agincourt?” she said, then accepted it with a smile. “It almost makes sense for us to be soldiers, we are predators, we are made to kill men.”

“That is not all that we are.”

“I hope not… But I see that you are good at it.”

“Do not like it.”

“Good.”

She leaned close to him, and he wrapped his arm around her. All the time he was overly aware of the weight of the revolver in his pocket. He remembered the impact of his sword against the man in white, the look of hatred on The Count’s face as Molly beat him, Charlotte’s serenity as she watched a fight which was nothing compared to the battles she had witnessed over the millennia.

He brushed the memories aside. Now was the only time which mattered. Now was good.

“Who was the man who attacked your tavern?” she asked.

“He claimed to be The Count de Sainte Germaine.”

“And was he?”

“He looked like him, but it was so long ago that we last met.”

“I have heard of him. They say he lived for over a hundred and fifty years, extending his life through alchemy.”

“It is not possible, even for us. We live and die and are reborn. Things change. No one lives forever.”

“The world is terribly strange.”

“Aye.”

“Why does he hate you?”

“Because he is my enemy, has been since we first met.”

“Why?”

John had hoped to avoid this question, but he could not lie to her.

“Long ago, before Napoleon even, I kissed his wife. I was a young man, I did not know…He has hated me ever since.”

“That is why? He has hated you for so long, risked men’s lives, nearly ended his own life, because someone once kissed his wife more that two centuries ago?”

“Aye.”

“That is frightfully silly.”

“He is insane.”

“This world is insane.”

“Right here and now, lady, the world is perfect.”

She kissed him again, on the neck that time, and held him tighter.

The first faint glow of dawn began to show in the east.

“It grows late, lady, may I walk you to your hotel?”

She looked at him, her eyes bright in the fading darkness.

“I really rather hoped that I might stay with you tonight… We have been acquainted for a while now.”



The Count de Saint Germaine lay in a luxuriously padded coffin in a tomb dark room. The man in the white suit stood beside him, his hands held behind his back, his head bowed, his face gaunt with concern and fear, white skin contrasting sharply with vivid blue bruises where the sword and the spanner had struck him.

The Count’s eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, as cold as death.

Most of the cuts and bruises which he had sustained had healed already, but his ribs and arms and legs were still broken, and a foul scar stretched across his pale face.

The Count’s dead eyes rolled in his sockets, then he blinked. He slowly turned his head, the only part of his body which he could move, to face the man in white.

“Mathew, I thirst,” he whispered in hoarse French.

“Yes, my Lord,” Mathew, the man in white, replied in the same language.

Mathew bowed, then left the room.

A minute latter he returned, leading a tall, thin girl in a white dress. Her deathly pale face was blank, her eyes deep and dark, her ebony hair hanging to her waist in un-kept ringlets.

She walked to the coffin and dropped to her knees. Mathew took one of her slender arms and held her wrist to the Count’s face. With his other hand he drew a cut-throat razor from his pocket and slit her wrist, another horizontal cut next to countless identical scars.

When her blood began to flow, red against her white flesh, The Count leaned forward to drink.

For a few moments he lapped up her blood like a starved cat, then his head collapsed against the coffin.

“Thank you lady,” he whispered.

She ran a slender hand affectionately through his white hair, and then bowed her head.

The Count’s mind was cleared, some of the pain faded. It was then only hatred which overwhelmed him.

How had it come to this?

He, The Count de Saint Germaine- the greatest occultist of all time, the advisor to kings and friend of tyrants- beaten by an old soldier, a handful of thugs and a girl with a stick.

It was all Harvey’s fault.

The bastard.

He had underestimated his enemy. Harvey had been cunning, had led him into a trap and cheated like the dog he was. Animal cunning and superior numbers- that was all.

The bastard.

The Count’s thin lips smiled dryly.

When he had healed, and when Harvey least expected it, he would take what was due to him.

“There will be vengeance,” he hissed to Mathew.

VAMPRE: HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 12 (Continued from 14/03/11)

CHAPTER 12.

            It was colder than it had been for months as John walked to work the next evening. A harsh wind blew from the north, and brought rain with it.

            Autumn was dying and winter was coming, but John Harvey liked the winter. The nights were longer, and more darkness meant more time and more freedom.

            Despite the weather he strode to work filled with energy and determination, a long, thin object wrapped in a bed sheet tucked under his arm.

            He entered his pub, put the object on the bar, shuck the rain from his hat and jacket, hung them up, then put the object on a shelf under the bar.

            He hoped it would help, and knew it probably wouldn’t. It probably would be nothing compared to that which his enemy would attack him with. He hoped Lloyd came back soon. Lloyd would have guns, and traps, and a plan, and contacts, and contacts with more guns, and more traps and more plans…

“Alright John,” Olly greeted him. “What’s that?”

“Protection. Get yourself home, mate, Molly will be here soon.”

“Ok John. Cheers.” 

Olly lit a cigarette and walked out into the night, leaving the pub empty. John started to wipe down the bar, and decided that if it stayed quite he might have to do some paperwork.

A few minutes later Molly came in with a long sports bag. She said hello to him then took a hockey stick out of her bag and leaned it in the corner of the back room by her coat as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“What’s that Molly?”

“Protection.”

“Look here Molly, if there is any trouble I don’t want you getting involved.”

“This is the 21^st Century, John, a lady can kick arse if she wants to… I rang Charlotte last night. She says that she has heard nothing about The Count for a over a hundred years, and she says that there is no way that he could have really lived that long, the longest she has known any of us live was a hundred and seventeen years. Either someone is taking the piss, or this guy is pretending that he didn’t die. She says that happens sometimes, a vampyre can’t cope with the change and all the memories, so they pretend that they haven’t died and been reborn, they just carry one like nothing has happened. It fucks them up.”

“Understood.”

“When is the new moon?”

“Friday night.”

“Shit. That’s only three days. Charlotte said she could come here to help.”

“I don’t think she should get involved.”

“If she wants to get involved, then she will do,” her smile was sharp and her eyes bright. “Dave might come down too. He’s not soft, and he’ll do anything I ask.”

“Maybe. The thing is that Victoria is coming down that night.”

“Shit. Have you told her?”

“No, don’t wish to bother her. It might be nothing. I don’t want this place looking like a war zone when she visits, but I don’t want any trouble here. Perhaps you and Charlotte could keep an eye on her. I don’t want this blown out of proportion. We have to carry on as normal.”

“Sure, ‘keep calm and carry on’… Is that your sword I see behind the bar?”

“Yes.”

“I bet she’s really sharp, isn’t she…”

“Yes, she is.”

It seemed that the weather was keeping people at home, because the pub was dead for an hour. Molly cleaned glasses, then put some music on and had a cigarette and a cup of tea. John looked at his pile of paperwork, rearranging the work schedules so that everyone was working on Friday, he was off on Saturday and Sunday, and no one was overworked. In the end he had to work everyday the following week.

Eventually Tony came in with five of his biker friends. They all wore leather jackets with patches sown on which marked them as members of ‘The Antichrist’s Acolytes’. They looked far more smug and purposeful than usual. Tony ordered a round of drinks, after patting John heavily on the back, then gave him a firm hand shake.

“My lads have never been beaten,” Tony said with a wink.

“Appreciate that Tony. It’s Friday night we have to worry about.”

“Don’t you worry, son. My lads will be here every night, and on Friday we’ll be here from opening till closing.”

It was not unusual for Tony and his mates to be in the pub from opening to closing on most nights, but John appreciated the offer.

“Thanks Tony. That round’s on the house.”

“Cheers,” Tony’s hard face creased in thought for a moment. “Is your mate Lloyd around?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Tony and his men took their drinks to a large bench near the door, and Molly joined John at the bar.

“The Count is in for a nasty shock if those lot are about,” Molly said.

“This is going to turn into a riot,” John replied.

“You’re worried about Victoria…”

“She has lived through worse.”

“Are you going to call her tonight?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Good, best not to look too keen.”

“Am not ‘too keen’.”

“Don’t try to lie to me, John Harvey. I know that you look like when you’re in love.”

He could not argue with that.

John watched Tony and his friends as they drank that night. The battered leather which they wore like armour. The leathery winkles on their chiselled faces. The way their rings and earrings caught the light. They were warriors, but at the end of the day, they were old men.

My lads have never been beaten, he heard Tony say again in his mind.

They had been around for along time, and never been beaten. Like The Old Guard, like the weather beaten officers in Wellington’s Riflemen regiments, like Nelson. It was reassuring.

Alice woke with a start in the early hours of the morning. She sat bolt upright, staring into the darkness like a startled deer, then felt for the reassuring bump in the bed which was Sam. She caught her breath.

She had been having a nightmare.

In the nightmare a creature pursued her. Half way between Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Nosferatu. A bald headed monster with deathly pale skin and long claws, wearing a diner suit under a long, black cowl.

It chased her along the street, and into a grave yard. She walked as fast as she could, too tired and too scared to run, but it was always a few steps behind her. She could hear its hissing breath over the thunder of her heart beat. It was dark as she dodged around grave stones and under trees.

Suddenly it had reached out and touched her with its cold, pale hand. Silently she had screamed, and somehow broken into a run. But it followed her.

It pursued her into an abandoned warehouse full of rats and broken crates and rusting barrels. She ran through the vast, dark building, hearing its footsteps hammering behind her. At the end of the warehouse, she ran up a flight of creaking iron steps. The vampire followed. She reached the top and ran along a swaying walkway… to a dead end.

Cold sweat dripping off her face, she crawled into the corner. Overcome with fear, and desperate to disappear into the wall. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.

A hand touched her back.

Startled, she turned and saw the monster standing over her.

It smiled.

It fangs were not so monstrous now. Its talons not so long. There was a trace of colour in its pale flesh.

“Will you listen to me now?” It hissed.

Then she had woken.

She wiped the sweat from her brow and drank a sip of water, then smuggled down next to her boyfriend’s warm body.

When she woke again she was somewhere else.

Her bed was low to the ground and made of intricately carved wood, with a thick, lumpy feather mattress and woollen blankets. The floor was made of stone stabs and had a single rug made from a wolf’s pelt. The walls were made of stone, and light- somehow she knew it was the light of sunset- glowed through one tiny window.

The man beside her was different too. His hair was long and fey, more like an animal’s than a man, his face was handsome, despite bruising around the mouth and eyes. One of his strong arms was in a splint. On top of a pile of clothes by the bed, his broadsword and dagger lay discarded.

She too was different. Younger and with fairer skin. Her hair, although brushed to a fine shine, was wilder too, as thought it had never known shampoo or conditioner. She sensed, in the insane logic of dreams, that she was the same person, the same Alice, but at the same time, not the same Alice at all.

And this was all fine and normal. She had a little longer before she had to be up and her husband- she was sure the wounded warrior was her husband- needed his sleep. So she lay beside him and drifted back to sleep.

The next time she woke she was back in her own bed next to Sam.

She pinched herself to make sure she was awake, then kissed Sam’s sleeping face. It was just past dawn, but she did not want to go back to sleep. She did not trust herself to dream again.

She got out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and drank the last of the water on her bedside table.

Then she went through to the bathroom and splashed water onto her face to wake herself up. Then she began brushing her teeth. Half way through brushing her teeth, when most of the toothpaste was gone, she smiled at her reflection.

Her reflection smiled back- but in the mirror she had long, canine fangs.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She blinked.

The fangs were gone.

The touched her mouth to make sure, then quickly finished brushing her teeth and washed and brushed her hair without looking at the mirror.

I’m stressed and tired, she told herself. All I need to do is spend all day eating chocolate ice cream and watching Romantic Comedies, and then everything will be fine…

On Thursday evening John walked into his pub to find Molly waiting for him behind the bar. Tony and a few of his gang nodded at him from across the dim room.

“Look at this,” Molly said, skipping any greeting. Her face was paler and her eyes even more intense than ever.

She was holding a copy of the local newspaper, which had come out that morning. The head line on the front page read; ‘HORROR! AMINAMAL ATTACK’. The article described, in tabloid fashion, how a man had been found in his own back garden on Wednesday night with his throat ripped out. There was no other sign of injury and no sign of a struggle. The police suspected that he had been attacked by one of the dangerous, banned breeds of bulldogs which, the paper said, were commonly owned by unemployed people. It was also possible, according to the newspaper, that the unfortunate man had been attacked by a wild animal which had escaped from a zoo, or the mysterious local Big Black Cat. Or it may have been the work of hoddie clad youths on drugs. In the bottom left hand corner was a tasteless cartoon of a sheep with fangs wearing a hoddie.            

“This is not good,” said John.

“Heard anything from Lloyd recently?” Molly asked coldly.

“No. Lloyd would no do this. Or at least Lloyd would not do this in this own territory and leave that mess lying around for the police to find. This is the work of a vampyre gone mad.”

“What, like the sort of mad where you think you’ve been alive for over three hundred years without dying?”

“Aye. This was my enemy’s work.”

At the other side of the room, Tony and his men were debating the pros and cons of owning huge, vicious dogs.

The pub was quite that night, so they closed at midnight, which was unusually early.

When John got home he found that an envelope had been put through his letter box. The envelope was of high quality paper with the words ‘John Harvey Esquire’ written in a hand which may once have been very elegant but was now simply spidery. It was sealed with a lump of red wax stamped with the initials ‘C. S. G.’

He ripped it open, and written on watermarked paper in the same hand writing were the words;

“Dear John Harvey,

             I hope that his letter finds you in the most wrenched health.

Tomorrow I shall come to claim my debt. A debt for which you owe me over two centuries of interest. First I shall take your tavern. Then, when you are suffering terrible poverty, I shall take your home. When you are destitute, and those closest to you despair for your lowly soul, I shall take your woman for my own. Then, long after you have despaired of life, and when you least expect it, I shall kill you, and drink every last drop of your blood.

Only then will your debt be repaid.

Yours sincerely,

The Count de Saint Germaine.”

John dropped the letter on the floor, went through to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine and began to fry a steak. When he had finished cooking he retired to his front room, put on a folk music CD, and sat back with his meal, trying to relax.

After his meal he was tempted to have another glass of wine, but he decided that he needed to keep sharp. Instead he selected his favourite book of Blake’s poetry and read that. After only four pages he found that he could not concentrate.

He wanted to phone Victoria, but he knew that nothing would be gained from that.

He took his penknife from his pocket and tested the blade. Not sharp enough. He spent half an hour sharpening that.

Then he routed about in his desk until he found a Rifleman’s Sword Bayonet which he had owned since he was a teenager. It was rusty and blunt. He cleaned the blade with oil and a rough clothe, then polished the brass hilt and handle, then sharpened the blade.

By the time he was finished the old weapon shone like silver, and the blade was like a razor.

He was tired then, but it was too early to sleep, so he sat with the sword bayonet across his lap, in a candle lit room and listened to another folk CD.

His mind drifted back to the time of Henry the Fifth. He sat in a huge hall with Sir Lloyd and his beautiful wife Marion, and with his own wife (whose name he had forgotten over the ages, now he could only remember how happy she looked on that night, and how her hair used to shine in the moonlight as he walked with her through the meadows). At one end of the hall the king sat upon a throne and laughed. The hundreds of other knights and ladies in the hall were merry too. Standing in the middle of the room where men playing instruments very much like fiddles and flutes and violins. Another man sung in a sweet voice like a woman’s. Lloyd drank hard, trying to block out the pain that his lost eye still caused him.

It was a good time, but the memory did not last long.

Eventually, well before sunrise, he went to his bed, put the sword bayonet under his pillow, and tried to sleep. 

The next evening, he checked that his knife was in his pocket before he left the house.

He wished that he had thought to get a present to give to Victoria; some flowers or chocolates, maybe some jewellery. It was too late now.

The sky was very dark. A few stars shone, but the moon seemed to mock him with her absence. It was a long walk to the tavern.

Outside the Black Boar, Olly, Tony and four of Tony’s men stood smoking and waiting.

“Good evening,” he greeted them.

“Evenin’ son,” Tony greeted him with a firm handshake.

“Evening mate,” Olly said, his voice dry from chain smoking.

John looked the barman up and down, and saw a bump in the big leg side pocket of his combat trousers.

“What’s that Olly?”

“This?” Olly took the largest spanner which John had ever seen out of his trousers. “This is my fucking tool mate.”

John could not help but smile. He did not want to know what Tony and his men would have tucked into belts and boots.

“Listen to me, Olly,” he said. “Stay out of trouble. Let me do the talking, stand behind me if it gets heavy. Your job is to make sure that nothing in our pub gets damaged, including the customers.”

Olly nodded and put his spanner back in his pocket.

He strode into the pub, which was as dark as always and the atmosphere as tense as a funeral. Molly and Dave stood behind the bar, as straight as soldiers on parade. Charlotte sat alone, majestic as always, with a large leather handbag on her table. Six more bikers sat around drinking with quiet determination.

Then he saw, like a beacon in the dark, battlefield atmosphere of the room, a vase of white lilies stood in the middle of the bar.

“Good evening my friends,” John addressed the room.

Charlotte strode up to him and embraced him silently. Then they shuck hands with Dave across the bar. Molly crossed the bar and hugged him, as he held her he felt hard patches where knifes were hidden in her belt.

“Alright John,” she said softly. “Me and Charlotte got the flowers for you to give to Victoria. We knew you would forget.”

“Thanks Molly,” he said as he let her go. “Thank you all for coming here. Need everyone to stay calm tonight. Molly and Charlotte, I would like you to look after Charlotte if anything happens to me, whatever else is going on, don’t take your eyes off her. Dave, I’ll work behind the bar from now on, thank you. Get yourself a drink and stay out of trouble.”

There was no point in trying to tell Tony’s gang what to do.

The pub was quite that evening. No one had much to say to each other. Molly, Charlotte and Dave sat together, which would have been awkward at the best of times. The bikers were in the mood for business. The few other people who came in only stayed for one drink. It was not a place for fun that night.

John checked his watch constantly. Waiting for Victoria. Waiting for the Count. He took his sword out of its scabbard so that it was ready.

Time dragged on.

Then, at a quarter to twelve, his enemies strode in.

'NAM IV

Been here nearly three weeks now. Have started taking Vietnamese lessons. Their word for England, 'Anh', also means Older Brother, which is quite nice.
My advice for anyone visiting Vietnam would be to be prepared for anything and give yourself a huge margin of error. Everything is very inpredicatable, and one never knows when one may be late, lost or ripped off. And to practice using chop sticks, and not bring anything of sentimental value with you (in case you loose it). And, of course, to bring an umbrella...

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON CHAPTER 11 (continued from 10/03/11)

CHAPTER 11

Lloyd woke under a bridge at sunrise.

“Like a troll,” he muttered to himself.

The rocks he lay on dug into his back. Everything around him was cold and damp. His skin was burnt from exposure to the sun. His once fine clothes were tattered and dirty. He hadn’t eaten properly in days.

How many days? He did not know how long he had been wondering the French countryside for. Roaming the night, sleeping under barns, trees and bridges. Slipping in and out of madness and delirium, drifting between times, places and personas.

Now that he was rested, the pain and hunger sharpened his mind.

How had he let this happen to himself? Sir Lloyd, The Hero of the Siege of Herfleur, who had killed twenty three Frenchmen at Agincourt. Captain Lloyd, who had taken an Eagle from Napoleon in Spain and fought The Old Guard at Waterloo.

It was not on at all.

He moved over to the river and washed his face and hands, then took a drink of the water to clear his throat.

He looked for a cigar, but they were all gone.

He had to get out of France. To do that he needed a passport or to smuggle onto a ship- or steal a ship. Baron could get him a fake passport, but that meant going back to Paris. He did not wish to go back to Paris, and he suspected that Baron was no longer his friend. He needed a ship, so he had to go to Calais.

In addition, he needed to acquire some earplugs.

And cigars.

Before everything else, however, he needed to eat and drink.

There had to be a milkmaid around somewhere…



John strolled down stairs for diner.

Being well prepared at all times, he had packed a diner suit and a black cravat, which he wore. His shoes were shined to military perfection.

The tables in the bar had been rearranged so that Molly, Charlotte and the other archaeologists were sat together, whilst a table for two stood empty. For the first time since he had been in the tavern, there were candles on every table and the lights were turned down low. Charlotte had been at work.

He greeted Molly and Charlotte, ordered a glass of red wine and a glass of rosé, then sat down at the empty table.

He found it odd to be waiting for someone other that Charlotte and Molly, who had been punctual on this holiday. He reasoned that it was because Charlotte had been up all day.

A few minutes later, Victoria appeared. She wore another conservative black dress, eloquent boots, full length black lace gloves, and had a white lily in her hair instead of her bonnet.

He stood, pulled back her chair and took her hand.

“Good evening lady,” he greeted her. “You look marvellous.”

“Thank you sir, good evening to you too,” she replied shyly.

They took their seats and looked at the menu.



“I’m telling you, it’s a shrine to Mithras!” Doctor Stan declared.

“We found no human remains, no traces of an Alter, and no ritual implements,” Charlotte replied.

“Who’s Mithras?” Molly asked.

“War God, adopted by Roman Soldiers. Bull shaped fellow. Blood sacrifices. Cult so secret it may not have existed,” Holly said.

“I found a bull’s skull!” Stan insisted.

“It was no where near the site, and not very old,” protested Charlotte, before turning to the bar. “Bar wench! More ale if you don’t mind!”



“Are all archaeologists insane?” John asked Victoria.

“No, only the good ones. What do you do these days?”

“I have a pub. A bit like this one but full of bikers instead of farmers.”

“That must be… interesting. Do you miss the army?”

“Not too much. If I ever want to fight, I try to control my customers, if I want to hear deafening roars, cries of agony and the clash of metal on metal I get a band to play, and I never want to march for days in the rain.”

She laughed daintily.

“I think that I may wish to visit your pub, John Harvey. What is it called?”

“The Black Boar. It would be wonderful if you could visit.”

“Maybe I shall.”

At the end of the night, John walked her to her car.

“Good bye Victoria,” John said as he took her hand.

“Good bye, John Harvey, It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

“My pleasure, lady. Take care.

“I shall call you soon. Good bye.”

She kissed him briefly on the neck then got in her car and drove away, her headlights faded into the night.



John Harvey walked to work. The sky was dark and clear and the pavement was thick with the last of autumn’s leaves. Street lights threw shadows which slid across the ground as they strode past them, his mind full of thoughts of work and Victoria.

An airplane flew low overhead, one of the military aeroplanes which practiced manoeuvres frequently in the area.

As he heard the thunder of its engine he was transported to another time and another place.

He stood ankle deep in mud. Barbed wire stretched out ahead of him. A tattered green uniform clung to his half starved frame, a tin helmet rested heavily on his head and he held a rifle, the streak of blood on the bayonet glistening in the sun. A biplane flew close overhead- the first he had ever seen. A man made monster which terrified him; the product of a world were he had no place. A machine gun rattled out death.

It lasted only a moment, and then he felt only slightly dazed.

He knew then that he had lived for longer than he had previously known. Victoria had been right. After a moment’s recovery, he felt closer to her than before.

A minute later and he was at his pub.

Olly, one of the other barmen, stood outside smoking with one of the groups of bikers who seemed to live in The Black Boar.

“Alright John,” Olly greeted him at the door “There is a gentleman here to see you.”

Olly’s face was bright and confident, but the tone of his voice told him that something was wrong.

A tall man in a white suit stood at the bar. When John entered, he stalked over to him and offered a pale, cold hand.

“Good evening, Mr Harvey,” the man said as they shuck hands firmly. “I represent the Count de Saint Germaine.”

John looked hard into the man’s pale eyes before he replied.

“I met the Count de Saint Germaine two hundred years ago. We have both died several times since then. Times have changed. I wish to have nothing to do with him.”

“You are wrong,” the man said with a cruel smile. “The Count de Saint Germaine has never died. Only we, who are weak, must die. The Count de Saint Germaine cares nothing for your wishes. The Count de Saint Germaine sends me as his humble messenger.”

“That is impossible. You speak lies.”

“It is true. Listen to me, John Harvey. The Count de Saint Germaine lays claim to this land, as repayment for past debts. You are to hand it to him before the new moon.”

“This is madness. You offend me. Leave my land at once.”

The two men stared at each other.

The bikers had come inside to watch, and they stood with broad arms crossed over leather clad chests, or with empty bottles in hand. In the far corner of the room a Goth couple stopped holding each other’s hands and staring into space, and started staring at the confrontation instead.

The man smiled, baring his teeth, and John bared his teeth back. He knew he could take the man; he could kill the messenger.

“The Count de Saint Germaine will receive his debt on the eve of the black moon,” the man said with a curt nod, and was gone.

“What was that about mate?” Olly asked.

“That man is barred from my pub,” John replied. “Either he is insane, or my enemy is back.”

Olly knew better than to ask any questions.

John went to work, hanging up his jacket and standing behind the bar. Tony, a short, powerfully built man in his sixties with a shaved head, who seemed to be the leader and spokesman of the bikers, waited for him on the other side of the bar.

“Didn’t like the look of that, son,” Tony said.

“Forget about it Tony,” John replied.

“That lad was a creepy bastard, John. He said he’ll be back, and he looks the type to bring all his mates with him. Just want you to know that me and my lads have got your back.”

“Thanks Tony. Pint?”

“Cheers son.”

A few minutes later Molly came in a relieved Olly. Molly went behind the bar and Olly got himself a pint and went to talk to Tony.

“Evening Molly,” John greeted her.

“Evening, I see the old place hasn’t fallen apart without us.”

“No, “he said looking around as though for problems. “It hasn’t.”

“You should go on holiday more often.”

“Maybe.”

“To see Victoria?”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe I could have a few days off next week to see Charlotte?”

“Maybe…”

A group of young men with longhair and baggy cloths came in, and they were busy for a few minutes serving them. When the bar was quite again, John took Molly to one side.

“We had some trouble earlier,” he told her.

“What type of trouble?”

“A man, one of us, came in looking for a bribe, or to set up a protection racked, or just to stir up trouble. Not sure. He said he would be back at the new moon.”

“What did he look like?” Molly’s eyes were sharp and alert. “I keep an eye out for him.”

“Middle aged, tall, very pale. Was wearing a white suit, would stand out a mile in here.”

“Okay. When is the new moon anyway?”

“Over a week, I think, I’ll find out.”

“What did he want?”

“The pub, Molly. He said that his master wanted our pub.”

“Fuck that. This is our pub. Whose his bloody master then?”

“He said that his master is The Count de Saint Germaine.”

Molly stood silently for a moment as the name worked its way into her memory. She frowned darkly.

“That’s impossible. The Count de Saint Germaine has been dead for over a hundred years. Even if he really was a vampire, he isn’t still really the same man now. Maybe someone’s taking the piss… or maybe there is a different Count, it’s just a title after all.”

“The messenger knew my name, Molly, and about my past.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my enemy is back… somehow. On the new moon we’ll have extra staff on all night, and be on our guard. Tony says the regulars will help, but I don’t want everyone getting involved, or it could be messy. I wish Lloyd was here.”

“Lloyd? I thought you didn’t want it to get messy.”

“Lloyd would know what to do, possibly…”

“I’ll talk to Charlotte, see if she’s heard anything.”

“Thanks, Molly. It’ll be alright. Now we had best get back to work”



John looked up at the sky as he walked home. A few small clouds drifted across the stars, and the moon was a bright, shining scythe blade of light into the night. He did not know if it was waxing or waning, and reminded himself to find out soon.

As he unlocked his door he heard the telephone ring, so he hurried along the hallway to the front room where the phone stood on an ebony Bureau desk.

“Hello,” he answered cautiously.

“Good evening, John” ladies voice replied. “Victoria here, how goes it?”

“Good, thank you, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Been a bit busy with a dead line tonight, but it shall have to wait. Have you been busy?”

“Quite busy,” he did not want to tell her about the problem in his pub. “Just finished work. It is good to hear from you.”

“I shall have a bit of free time once I’ve finished with this article, I was thinking I may come to visit that famous tavern of yours next weekend.”

“That would be excellent. When did you have in mind?”

“Would Friday night be fine with you?”

“Yes, that would be great… I shall be working most of the evening, but I shall ensure that you are entertained, and we could go for a walk when I am finished, there is a charming graveyard by the river which we could go to, or perhaps the ruins of the castle. Should be free on Saturday.”

“Sounds marvellous. I shall be there by midnight. Shall see you then.”

“Shall look forward to it lady.”

“As shall I. Good night, sir.”

“Good night lady.”

He smiled as he put down the phone, then went through to his kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine and put some bread, cheese and olives on a plate. He returned to his front room and sat down at a black leather armchair facing his fire place, which an immaculately polished sword hung over. Not the same sword which he had wielded at Waterloo, but one of identical patent which he had spent years trailing antique shops to find. He ate an olive and took a sip of wine, and then remembered to check the cycle of the moon.

After taking a swig of the wine, he went over to the Bureau and searched amongst his paper work, the endless bills, receipts and forms which he needed for the pub, until be found his diary. He flicked through it until he found a section at the back which listed the phases of the moon.

The next new moon was on Friday- the night of Victoria’s visit.

He sat down heavily in his armchair and finished his wine and then his food. Then he went to the kitchen, refilled his glass, then rummaged in the draw under the sink until he found his tool box, and took a sharpening stone from it. Returning to his front room he put down his glass and sharpening stone, then carefully took down his sword. He sat down with its long, slim blade across his lap and began to sharpen it.

Pausing only for the occasional sip of wine, he ran the stone firmly and smoothly up and down the blade. He did not finish until the first light of dawn shone through the curtains.

'NAM III

THE BEST THINGS ABOUT VIETNAM.

The girls (the vast majority of which are quite lovely).
The beer.
The coffee.
Being able to smoke everywhere.
Being English (which, in certain circles, is like being royalty, in that people buy you things and ignore your ignorance).
Crossing the road ('what ever doesn't kill you, can only make you stronger').

THE WORST THINGS ABOUT VIETNAM.

The taxi drivers (one day, some one shall shout 'motor bike' in my face one too many times and i shall rip his throat out)
The Trains.
The Tea.
Crossing the road.

VAMPYRE HUNTING THE MOON, CHAPTER 10 (continued from 02/03/11)

CHAPTER 10

AGINCOURT, 1415.


“By God, John, there’s a lot of them,” the one eyed knight said.

“Aye, Lloyd, a great many,” John replied to his friend.

Beside them stood their fellow men at arms, Tobby the Bold, Roger of Penrith and Taffy the Scott, and their commander The Duke of Cumberland; the only survivors of a unit of thirty men at arms who had set off from the north of England to France. Ahead of them King Henry the Fifth paced up and down the lines, sword in hand. All around them nine hundred more men at arms and knights stood waiting.
Lloyd’s disfigurement, which brutally marked his sleek and handsome face, was not uncommon amongst the men. It was John, with only a few scars on his hands and face, who was out of place in that battle mauled force.

To either side of them, a vast force of archers prepared themselves. Over five thousand men from England and Whales armed with longbows.

But across the water logged field, as far, far greater force waited impatiently to do battle with them.

Thirty thousand Frenchmen, almost all men at arms and knights, many on horseback. The knights resembled a massive wall of polished silver, above which hundreds of bright banners flew. On the flanks stood small groups of men with bows or crossbows. The sounds of their many drums, trumpets and flutes drifted across the field.

They had already performed their heathenish earth Mass and committed their lives to the Will of God. They waited for battle, and with it victory or death.

“We need ale,” Lloyd said. “When this is over, we must loot us some ale…”

“Silence you cur!” The Duke shouted. “The King is speaking.”

All fell silent and stared as King Henry prepared to make his speech to lead them to slaughter.

“Get thee at them!” Henry roared.

And that was it. With a clanking of rusty armour and stomping of iron shod boots on muddy ground, they advanced towards the French. At the range of a longbow’s arrow from the enemy, and flanked on either side by trees, they halted.

They could see the enemy force now. Bowmen, crossbowmen, men at arms and the endless legions of mounted knights whose steeds pawed the mud. They could make out the coats of arms of the leading nights, and knew that all of the most renowned warriors in France faced them.

The British archers gave the French their usual greeting. The two fingered V sight salute which showed that they still had the fingers used to draw a bow- the fingers which the French cut from prisoners.

The French force stirred. With a great waving of banners and sounding of trumpets, the leading divisions advanced in a disorganised mass.

Henry gave the word, and the archers fired. The sky turned black with arrows.

Like those ancient warriors of Sparta, they would fight in the shade.

The French broke into a charge as the arrows rained down on them. Men at arms on foot slipped in the mud, and knight’s horses stumbled and fell. Hundreds died in the cloud of arrows.

The English men at arms stood to receive the enemy- a fraction of the force which had first advanced on them.

“Harry, England and the girls back home!” The Duke of Cumberland shouted.

“The girl’s back home!” John, Lloyd and the rest of their men chorused.

Wooden shields clashed together, iron bit iron and the English and French met in combat.

John braced his shield against a charging French man at arms and blocked the man’s sword with his own. He braced himself, pulled his sword free and then down into the man’s head. As the Frenchman stumbled, he kicked his legs from under him, knocked him out of the way and defended himself against the next attacker.

Beside him, Lloyd dragged his sword free of a dead man’s chest. Roger fell back wounded, and Taffy, Tobby and The Duke fought on.

More of the French charged into the fray, but they were unable to bring their missile weapons to bear because their own men were in the way. The first wave had made the mud even worse as the French stumbled and trampled their own wounded comrades to death

The English men at arms stood like a wall of flesh and iron as waves of the enemy fell upon them.

Evidentially sheer weight of numbers and brutality of combat forced the English back, one blood soaked foot at a time.

After twelve hard fought feet of retreat, the English stood their ground. Many of the arches, armed with weapons looted from the French dead, charged into the slaughter.

The French could not stand this fresh assault. Inch by agonising inch, the English took back their land, trampling the bodies of the dead on the way.

John and his men stood on a mound of their enemies. He raised his battered shield to block a French axe, then cut across at the man- breaking him.

That was the last of their immediate enemies. Across the field of churned mud and broken men they could see the distant enemy line where yet more of the French waited.

“How goes it?” John asked Lloyd, who stood, breathless, leaning on his sword.

“Will be alright when I have some ale,” he replied.

Then the French charged again. And again the sky went dark with English and Welsh arrows.

A group of mounted knights galloped at John’s men. The leading horseman fell to an arrow. That madly thrashing steed, combined with the terrible mud, took down the next two knights, but two more charged on.

A knight rode straight at John, the steed’s eyes mad with fear as it climbed the bodies of the dead. It reared up on its hind legs, pawing at the air with its hooves- catching John’s iron helmet and knocking him down.

Lloyd leapt over his comrades body and protected it with sword and shield, whilst Taffy hamstringed the beast and Tobby cut down the rider. The Duke took care of the other knight.

Lloyd threw down his shield and took up John’s sword in his left hand. Wielding both weapons he guarded his friend from a group of French men at arms who followed the knights.

“England and ale! England and ale!” Lloyd shouted at he cut down the enemy.

Tobby the Bold fell beside him to the assault of two tall Frenchmen, but Lloyd, Taffy and The Duke took care of the rest.

It was then that The French- battered and exhausted and with many of their leaders slain- surrendered.

Many prisoners were taken; French knights and Counts who would fetch great ransoms.

Two men at arms threw down their swords and surrendered to Lloyd.

The days seemed to be won, but then banners waved on the distant French lines.

“The French assault!” King Henry was heard shouting. “Kill the prisoners!”

Lloyd looking into the desperate eyes of his prisoners, then at his Duke, who nodded. Lloyd was too tired to care. In two swift strokes he murdered the men.

All around them hundreds of Frenchmen were put to death. All except the most valuable who were dragged behind the lines to be ransomed later.

The French counter attack was pitiful. A few hundred troops who were cut down by arrows.

The battle was over.

Lloyd looked down at John. His friend breathed still, but was unconscious and had several wounds from stray boots and swords as well as the blow to his head. Lloyd ripped off scraps of his cloak to cover the worst of the cuts and then called for a priest to see to him.

“You own me John,” he said.

Then he strode over to the abandoned French baggage train and searched it until he found a drink. There was no ale to be found, so he settled for a bottle of wine.

He smashed the neck of the bottle open with his dagger, sat down on a dead horse and took a swig from the bottle.

He looked around him.

Twelve thousand of the French lay dead or dying, beside them only a thousand of the English and Welsh.

All around him men and horses screamed in pain.

His skin was filthy with sweat, mud and gore. His armour was battered and he bled from a dozen minor wounds.

Blood mixed with wine in his mouth and he laughed.

NAM II

Things go well in Nam. T'is full of motor bikes, cheap ale and equisitly beautiful ladies.

VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON, Chapter 9 (Continued from 21/02/11)

CHAPTER 9.  

Charlotte woke on Friday evening to find her bed sheets pulled away and the warm weight of Molly astride her.

“Evening lady,” Charlotte smiled sleepily.

Moll’s fangs shone brightly as she smiled back, then she leaned down, her full breasts touching Charlotte’s and kissed her on the lips, then across her face and down her neck.

Charlotte ran her slender hands up Molly’s legs, then gripped her ass tightly, holding her closer as Molly began biting her neck. She gasped in pleasure for a few moments until Molly released her and turned her head, exposing her neck to Charlotte. Molly wrapped her arms around Charlotte’s back and moaned in ecstasy as her neck was gently bitten.

Then Molly leaned upright again, brushed a few strands of red hair out of her eyes and looked down on her lover’s golden form. She placed a hand on each of Charlotte’s pert breasts, teasing her nipples as Charlotte stroked her thighs, and feeling the heat grow between both their legs.

Charlotte ran her hands up Molly’s back, then sat up right so that her face was against Molly’s breasts. Molly wrapper her arms around her lover and bit at her long slender neck. She gasped as each tender kiss fell on her heaving breasts and began to gyrate her hips, rubbing herself against her.

A minute later and they were lying side by side, face to face, legs wrapped around each other and kissing passionately.

“Charlotte… ” Molly gasped.

“I love you Molly,” she replied

Molly bit her throats, kissed it, then turned around so she lay with her back to her. Charlotte held a breast in each hand and stroked her nipples as she kissed her neck. Then she slowly ran a hand down her stomach until it was between her legs and began to stroke her. Molly put her hands on Charlotte’s hands and rived in bliss until she came.

When she had caught her breath, Molly rolled over and lay on top of her lover. She kissed her lips. Then she kissed her neck and moved down, kissing each breast, then her stomach, then down her right leg and back up, then down and up her left leg before finally settling between her legs and licking her. Charlotte called out Molly’s name over and over again as her came.

They lay breathless in each other arms after that. Stroking each others hair and kissing each others lips.

“Good evening Charlotte,” Molly whispered.

“Very good. I could stay here forever… but we must meet John.”

“When?”

“In five minutes.”

“Shit.”

John sat on his door step, his leather jacket wrapped around him, a black trilby on his head to ward off the rain and his suit case beside him. Molly and Charlotte were late, sometimes he wondered what they always did in the half an hour in which they were suppose to be meeting him. If he was not an ex-military man and an obsessive vampyre, he would just tern up twenty minutes later than they agreed, but he needed to be punctual.

A small blue car drove down the street, he thought it might be Molly, but it drove past him.

He wondered how this holiday was going to work. In theory it was interesting to go to an archaeological excavation, but surely Charlotte would be working in the day, whilst he and Molly slept, and she would need to sleep whilst he was awake.

Moments later, Molly’s car pulled up beside him and he got into the back seat.

“Evening ladies,” he greeted them.

“Evening John,” Charlotte replied.

“Hi John,” said Molly. “Sorry we’re late.”

“No problem. Terrible weather for it.”

“Not good,” said Charlotte. “Hope it improves, digging in the rain is one of my least favourite things.”

“Are you going to be working all day?” he asked.

“Just in the afternoon on the first day, my crew can set up without me… you’ll meet them in the inn tomorrow night. Have to work all day on Sunday, but I can show you the site and any Saxon gold we find at night. I don’t need much sleep these days.”

“Fair enough.”

“Any word from Lloyd?” Charlotte asked.

“No.”

“Are you worried about him?” asked Molly.

“Not really, why?”

“He can’t normally stand to be in France for this long. He might have done something stupid.”

“Am sure he’ll have done something stupid, but I don’t think he’ll have got caught.”

Three hours latter they arrived at a large Tudor building in rural Northumbria called The Prince’s Tavern.

“I remember this pub,” John said as they got out of the car.

“Really?” Molly asked.

“Yes, I was robbed outside of it when I was a teenager, back in the 1700s. I like it though; it was a good night apart from that.”

“Did Bonny Prince Charlie really drink here?” Charlotte asked.

“Prince Charlie drank in most of the pubs,” Molly replied.

They went into the tavern. Thick oak beams supported the ceiling and a well polished claymore hung above a log fire. An elderly couple sat by the fire and three farmers sat a long table near the bar with their sheep dogs at their feet.

Charlotte collected their room keys from the bar and ordered a round of drinks, ale for her and Molly and wine for John, then joined them at a round table near the fire.

Half an hour later, Molly went outside to have a cigarette.

“It’s stopped raining,” she said when she came back inside.

“Jolly good,” said Charlotte, “we could go for a walk to Hadrian’s Wall, it’s only half an hour’s walk for here.”    

The land smelt fresh after the rain, and the night air was still and pleasantly cool. They walked along winding country lanes in the starlight, Molly and Charlotte holding hands and John a few paces behind. Charlotte led them to a rusty gate, through it and up a grassy field until the wall stood before them. A vast, crumbling ruin that stretched far across the horizon.

“This is about two thousand years old,” John said. “Nothing that people build now will last that long.”

“I once met a vampyre who remembered when this was built,” Charlotte said. “He said the Caledonians used to sit and watch the Roman build it, and laugh as they toiled. Sometimes the children would creep around at night andhide the Roman’s tools. They spent years on it, and were so proud, and then they would stand on top of it looking down… and all it ever did was slow down a man with a rope by about five minutes.”

“I’m glad I don’t remember the Romans,” Molly said.

“From what I hear,” Charlotte said. “They were like The Nazi’s in slow motion.”

“I’m glad I don’t remember The Nazis either.”

“The Nazis couldn’t have built this,” John said.

“Where abouts are you working tomorrow?” Molly asked Charlotte.

“Just around the corner. There are a few ruins which we think there was a guard tower, or maybe a bath house, we are going to find out.”   

“It must be so much more interesting than working behind a bar,” Molly said.

“Its mostly just digging really slowly… and sheep bones. At least you get to meet new people all the time, and hear bands, I’m just digging in the past.”

“I like the past,” Molly said.

“’What is, in the far distance seems to be,

The past, the past alone is true to me’”, John quoted.

“I once meet Goethe,” Charlotte said flippantly, “he was quite funny.”

Molly lit a cigarette. John looked up and down the fortified wall, trying to imagine being a Roman soldier or a Caledonian climbing over in the night.

“Its getting cold, can we go back to the pub?” Molly said.

“If you wish,” said Charlotte.

They returned to the pub in time for last orders. After a last drink, they all went up to Molly and Charlotte’s room for coffee. After that John decided to leave them alone and get something to eat in his room.

“Rest well,” Charlotte said as he wished them a good night. “I have a surprise for you tomorrow evening.”

Charlotte woke at midday. Kissed a sleeping Molly on the cheek then rolling out of bed and putting on a pair of sunglass to protect against the light coming through the curtains. She dressed quickly, putting on delicate underwear then jeans, an army surplus jumper, boots, a brown leather waist coat with a lot of pockets and a battered bushman’s hat for further protection from the sun and the elements.

Good thing I work in a trade where everyone wants to look like Indiana Jones, she thought.

Then she grabbed a bag of tools and books and went down into the tavern for a fried breakfast and a couple of cups of coffee. After that she got in Molly’s car and drove to the site of the dig.

Her team were already at work. Two students, Tom and Holly, were digging the last of the turf off a ten by ten foot patch of ground and Doctor Stan Oaklea, the junior archaeologist, was stood by a collection of complicated Magnetic Survey machines. The area was fenced off with rope on metal poles and a camp kettle stood over a small fire.

“Hello Professor,” Tom greeted her.

“We’re on site lad, call me Charlotte,” she said, tipping her hat in a theatrical salute. “Found any Saxon Gold yet?”

“No.”

“Any sheep bones?”

“No.”

“Good… Tom, get me some more coffee. Stan, get that damned Magnometer going, let’s pillage some dead Romans!”

John woke at sunset in his cosy tavern bed with its feather soft mattress. After making himself presentable, he went down to the tavern’s bar.

In the bar he saw a few of the locals, then a table occupied by two muddy teenagers and a man with a beard, in a broad brimmed hat. Archaeologists. On the table next to them was Molly, Charlotte and a singularly striking young lady.

She was of medium height and slim build, with the unmistakable pallor of someone who was either a vampyre or really wanted to be one. She wore an ankle length black dress, sensible shoes, white lace gloves and a black and white bonnet over dark hair which was tied back in a bun. Her face was sleek and her eyes bright and animated.

His first thought was that she was remarkably attractive, and his second thought was they she looked remarkably out of place in her earthy surroundings. It looked like she had taken a wrong turning in a dance hall a hundred years ago, found herself at the table, and was far too reserved to comment on it.

“Evening, John,” Charlotte greeted him. “This is Miss Victoria West, Miss West, this is John Harvey.”

She offered him a delicate hand which he took and kissed, in the manner in which his past lives had accustomed him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said to her, slightly embarrassed.

“Delighted,” she replied mildly.

He took a seat in the empty place facing her, but was completely unable to think of anything to say to her. A barmaid came over and took the orders for their meal; Charlotte’s dinner and breakfast for the rest of them. He still could not think of anything to say to her, so he asked Charlotte how the dig had gone.

Molly had heard this several times before, so she went out for a cigarette. She found the two students stood against the stone wall of the tavern. Holly was smoking a black Russian cigarette and Tom was trying to smoke a pipe.

“Do you work with Charlotte?” she asked them.

“Yes, we work for Professor Charlotte,” Holly replied.

“So you’re archaeologists then?”  

“I’m working on the beard, and my hat is in the post,” Tom said.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he looked a bit upset.

“…so we established that it was a guard tower,” Charlotte continued. “We found a Roman coin, and lots of chicken and sheep bones. Hopefully we will find more tomorrow. Doctor Oaklea thinks we’ve found a secret shrine to Mithras and expects us to find sacrificed human remains.”

“On what basis does he make that assumption?” Victoria asked.

“Absolutely nothing at all,” Charlotte said, then turned to John. “Victoria is a journalist for History Today, we have known each other for quite some time.”

John wondered if ‘quite some time’ meant a few years or a few centuries, he also wondered if ‘known each other’ meant ex lovers or business associates, with Charlotte it could be either. In addition, he wondered if Victoria was the surprise he had been told to prepare for, and decided that she probably was, and that it was his cue to talk to her.

“What brings you to Northumbria?” he asked her.

“Charlotte invited me, and I rather fancied a holiday.”

“Have you travelled far?”

“Just popped up from York.”

“Are you here for long?”

“Just tonight and tomorrow night, and yourself?”

“The same…”

He was interrupted by the arrival of the food and Moll’s return from outside. Charlotte and Molly made a bit of small talk during the meal, but John could think of little to say. He sipped his wine and admired Victoria’s fine features and the way her eyes constantly darted around. As she ate, she noticed that she had unusually pronounced fangs, which he found very attractive.

“May I get you a drink?” he asked her, when the meal was over.

            “How kind,” she replied with a smile. “Glass of rosé please.”

            Doctor Stan was at the bar, ordering ale.

            “Hear there is a shrine to Mithras by the wall,” John greeted him.

            “Have you now! I was thinking just the same thing! You know, hidden shrines to the Soldier’s God are far more common than people think. All over the place, don’t you know!”

            “So I hear, excuse me… Glass of red and a glass of rosé please… cheers.”

            He returned with the drinks.

            “Thank you, sir,” Victoria beamed.

            “My pleasure lady.”

            “I have to go and brief my crew,” Charlotte announced. “They are drinking far too slowly!”

            Charlotte and Molly left the table, went to the bar to order six bottles of wine then sat with the other archaeologists. John and Victoria were left alone.

            “Would you like to go for a walk after these drinks?” John asked.

            “Yes, that would be jolly. There is a rather quaint grave yard not too far from here.”

            It was a cool night, but the shy was clear and a thousand stars shone down on them as they walked. Before too long they came to a tall church with a high spire, surrounded by grave stones, most of which had decayed over the centuries.

            As John pushed open the creaking iron gates he was glad that Victoria had introduced him to ‘a nice vampire girl’ rather than a thoroughly evil one who could not step on holy land. They walked to a tall yew tree in the middle of a grave yard where there was a view of the church and the hills beyond. John took off his jacket and lay it down for them to sit on.

            “I like it here, it’s rather peaceful, “Victoria said.

            “Very quiet,” John agreed.

            “It is good to be away from all the people, living ones at least.”

            John began to understand why she had looked so out of place. A historian who dressed decades out of fashion and preferred the company of dead humans to the living. She seemed to be one of the vampyres who remembered the past so well that they were uncomfortable in the present.

            “John Harvey?” she asked, taking a cigarette from her jacket, fitting it to a small ivory cigarette holder and lighting it.

            “Yes?”

            “Where you by any chance around during the Napoleonic Wars? Under the same name?”

            “Yes, yes I was,” he wondered if he had already met her, but he did not think so.

“I thought so. It is strange how we often keep our names… My grandfather used to talk about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he said you took one of Napoleon’s Eagle Standards in Spain, he was very fond of you.”  

            “It was not I who took the Eagle,” he replied grimly.

            “My grandfather said that you took it, very bravely, then you let some drunkard called Captain Lloyd take the credit. I could not understand why, but I always thought it was very sweet and modest.”

            “It was complicated. Lloyd helped me to take it, I owed him…”

            “It was very noble. My grandfather said it was foolish, but I think he thought it noble also.”

            “Thank you, lady. May I ask who your grandfather was at that time”

            “My grandfather was Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.”

            John was so overjoyed he wanted to embrace her. He was sit with The Duke’s granddaughter, and she thought he was noble. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to… but he could not bring himself to touch her.

            “I am honoured, lady,” he said instead.

            “My pleasure.”

            “Your grandfather was a great man.”

            “Indeed. I miss him. I miss those days. Queen Victoria on the throne, the Empire stretching across the earth, the innovation, the progress.”

            “I would not know. I missed it. Do you remember any other times?”

            “Yes, I was alive around The Great War, but not for terribly long.”

            “I missed that too.”

            “Maybe. A lot of us do not remember being alive then, so many lived lives which were so short and brutal. I liked it, apart from when the men died, and the Twenties were fabulous, mostly.”

            She looked away from him and up at the stars. Far off, a fox cried. A distressing and mournful sound.

            “I do not like this world, John,” she said at last. “It is not the world we fought for.”

            He took her hand in his. She flinched a little, then looked at him and smiled, holding his hand.

            “It is the only world we have for now lady,” he said. “We shall only live in it once, we ought to make the best of it.”

            “You are right,” she said, but her voice did not sound happy.

            After a few minutes they left the grave yard, walking hand in hand along silent country roads until they reached the tavern

            “The bar will be closed now. Would you like to join me in my room for a drink, perhaps a bite to eat?” he asked her.

            “Thank you, but it would not be proper for me to be alone in a gentleman’s room.”

            John cursed himself, he should have known better.

            “However,” she continued, “I very much look forwards to seeing you at breakfast tomorrow.”

            “I look forward to it also,” he said, raising her hand and kissing it. “Good night, lady.”

            “Good night, sir.”

            John Harvey dreamed.

            In his dream he saw himself fighting on the field of Agincourt…