Nocturne
Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.
A/N 1: Athlone House (renamed in 1972; its original name was 'Caen Wood Towers) really exists. One of London's finest Victorian houses, it's located on Hampstead Lane, overlooking the Heath. Sadly, nobody lives there anymore, and it's in a quite derelict state. I never paid it much attention while living in the area, but it certainly deserves a better fate than that.
A/N 2: I couldn't resist bringing Shakespeare in (after reading Lori Handeland's 'Shakespeare Undead', it somehow suggested itself) . But please believe me that I'm not in any way insinuating that he didn't write his great plays all on his own in real life, okay?
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Before hauling his bulk out of his long-suffering clunker, Damien Kilcannon Vryce checked his equipment for one last time. Bugging device, handcuffs, his favourite Beretta. Other than his ancient Rover, the tools of his trade were in perfect working order, although he hoped with all his heart that the latter wouldn't be needed in the course of the evening. He liked his job, even didn't mind working under cover, but blowing a hole through someone wasn't his cup of tea.
But something had to be done about the serial killings keeping the British capital on tenterhooks. Five young women had been butchered over the last weeks, each of them a porcelain-doll beauty with pale skin and long black hair. Whatever could be said about him, their murderer evidently had his priorities straight.
The sheer brutality of the crimes had shocked even the hard-boiled London cops. None of the victims had been raped, but the killer had torn out their throats so viciously that their heads had almost been severed from the bodies. And that wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot. Arthur McMillan, the chief forensic pathologist of the Metropolitan Police, had left no doubt that the wounds had been caused by a set of teeth not even remotely resembling a human denture. That had led to a host of wild speculations ranging from a rabid dog or a big cat on the loose to sick jokes about a nutcase imitating the so called 'Tooth Fairy', a character out of a popular novel. But neither alternative couldn't quite explain the fact that there hadn't been an ounce of blood left in the bodies. It was uncanny, to say the least.
For Christ's sake, pull yourself together and say hello to reality, Vryce, Damien thought to himself. Count Dracula promotes cereals nowadays. There are no blood-sucking monsters of the dark, preying on the living. The worst you can come across tonight is a sick, twisted bastard who has watched too many vampire movies on the telly. And now get your stuff in gear, behave like the hack you profess to be and sound out your suspect.
The launch of his first CD last October had instantly catapulted the man calling himself the Hunter to world wide fame. Busy with rounding up a gang of forgers, Damien had never managed to attend one of his rare life performances, something he regretted, if only for missing a chance to get a feel for his suspect. Or so he told himself. But he had listened to said CD almost every evening, not to mention watching the handful of Hunter vids available on You Tube again and again until he knew every line and word off pat, and as far as he was concerned, the current hype about the bloke was all too understandable. His light tenor, spanning roundabout four octaves like poor Freddie Mercury's in his prime, was simply incredible, could caress like the finest silk or cut like a shard of glass when singing about an eternity of hunger and the agonies of hell. And that face...
There you go again. Can't you just keep your goddamn hormones in cheque for once? Vryce reprimanded himself. On a purely rational plane, he was well aware that there was nothing wrong with being gay. More and more people came out of the closet every day, and even the Lord Mayor of London had married his long-standing male lover last spring. But as for him, he wasn't so sure about the matter. If not for certain inclinations utterly incommensurable with the doctrines of his Church, he would have defintely applied for the London Theological Seminary after coming of age, and he still hadn't quite overcome giving up that cherished dream. Either way, he saw no reason for hawking his sexual orientation. The less his colleagues and superiors knew about it, the better.
The young inspector called himself to order. For the time being, he had more pressing matters at hand than lamenting about batting for the other team, namely finding out whether the Hunter was responsible for the killings. Strangely, he seemed to have dropped right from the sky. Their best computer specialists had tried to piece together his past or at least find out his real name, but had failed miserably. Neither his photograph nor the fingerprints he had left on his micro matched with anything in their rogues' gallery, and even a hair analysis had brought no result. The man remained an enigma.
It went without saying that setting value on his privacy didn't make him the prime suspect in one of the worst serial killings since Jack the Ripper. But fact was that wherever the Hunter had performed lately, people had vanished without a trace. Birmingham, Liverpool, Edinburgh - the list went on and on. It could be a coincidence, but Damien's gut feeling told him otherwise.
His brow knitted into a tight frown, he cast the neogothic lookalike of Castle Dracula towering in front of him a hard look. Like its sister village Hampstead, Highgate was an expensive place only the very famous or folks having been fed with a silver spoon could afford to reside at, and Athlone house, built in 1872 for a rich dye manufacturer, certainly ranked among the top ten in terms of outrageous pricing. Sharing a modest two-bedroom flat in Camden Town with one of his colleagues, he wasn't exactly an expert in high class real estates, but he estimated the value of the property at roundabout three million pound sterling, not to mention the five hundred thousand-odd bucks the direly needed refurbishments had allegedly sucked up. As it had been bought - and paid for in cash - before the Hunter had ever sung so much as a single note in public, he had to have money in abundance, but only God knew where and how he had acquired his wealth. Just one more item on Vryce's ever lengthening list of mysteries.
Stifling a sigh, he walked up to the heavily carved oak door and rapped the brass knocker in form of a fanged demon's head that seemed to have sprung right out of "The Exorcist', a movie that had scared the shit out of him in his teens. Not a good omen, as far as he was concerned.
It didn't take long until the door wings swung open, just to reveal a young woman rather sparsely clad in a gauze-thin black gown. Giving her the once-over, Damien couldn't help but shuddering. Her long black tresses hanging all the way down to her waistline and her face a perfect oval, she was beautiful all right, not in the currently so very much in vogue barbie doll style with pumped up boobs and lips, but as delicate and pale as a night flower. He would have found her alluring if not for the expression in her green eyes. Or rather lack thereof. They were frighteningly blank, devoid of any human emotion whatsoever.
"My name is Damien Vryce," he forced out between clenched teeth at long last. "I've got an appointment with the Hunter."
"The Master is in His music room, waiting for you. Please be so kind as to follow me."
Whatever Damien had expected hadn't prepared him for the view greeting him inside. Almost everything, from the furniture itself, a mixture of priceless antiques and modern designer pieces, to the rugs and cushions was as black as the heart of midnight, and the rare red and golden accents only served to heighten the overall impression of dramatic darkness. If the Hunter's taste in interior design somehow or other mirrored the state of his soul, he wasn't altogether keen on making his acquaintance.
On they went through halls of gleaming black marble and candle-lit corridors, his guide gliding weightlessly ahead of him as if she were made of other stuff than coarse human flesh. That's one hell of a creepy chick, Vryce groaned inwardly. I only hope that she's a unique specimen. Coming across the two other brides of dear old Vlad would be too much for my already rattled nerves. He had barely finished the thought when he called himself three times a fool for his unprofessional attitude. Whatever pills the woman had popped, she was no less mortal than he himself. No ancient monster in the guise of an aristocrat was waiting for him, eager to sink his fangs into his throat, and how the Hunter deemed it fit to decorate his home was none of his business. At least as long as it didn't involve covering lampshades with human skin or similar nasties, that is.
"His Excellency, the Count of Merentha."
Hearing the title, Vryce very nearly succumbed to a fit of the giggles. So much for 'no aristocrat'. He had never heard of a county or district called 'Merentha' before, but as matters stood, he wouldn't have been too surprised if it was located in goddamn Transylvania, the motherland of the undead.
The mere idea very nearly sent him into hysterics again, and he might have made a complete and utter fool of himself if not for the heavenly sounds reaching his ears. Before his wretched father had managed to get himself sacked and moved on to spending the already meagre family savings on drink and sports wagering henceforward, Damien had taken piano lessons himself. His teacher had considered him quite a talent, but nothing he had ever produced while hitting the keys had come even remotely close to the glissade of silvery notes played by a true master of his craft.
All sense of time escaped him as he stood there rooted to the spot as if in a dream, his eyes closed in rapture. Only when the man at the piano stopped playing and turned towards him, he snapped out of his trance-like state, just to goggle at his vis-à-vis in utter amazement.
None of the pictures or vids taken of the Hunter did do him justice. Seen in the flesh, he was simply breathtaking in an ethereal, almost otherworldly fashion Damien had never encountered in a human being before, be it man or woman. With skin the colour of ivory and a mane of light brown hair flowing around his delicate face like a halo, he could easily have been one of God's angels, sent down to Earth to make it a better place. If he was the killer, the corruption of his soul had left no mark on his outward appearance.
Remembering that drooling all over the place wasn't among his priorities, the young inspector cleared his throat. "That was beautiful," he said softly. "One of your own compositions?"
"Unfortunately not. It's the Nocturne by Chopin. I thought it somehow... fitting."
"Um, yeah, maybe." Vryce could have kicked himself for stammering like a teenager on his first date. He usually had the gift of the gab, but there was something about this man that he found outright unnerving. "I'm here for the interview you granted my paper," he stumbled on, a trickle of sweat running down his back. "But how shall I call you? Mr Hunter? Your Highness? Writing for a music magazine, I'm not used to dealing with aristocracy."
"As I'm the first and only Count of Merentha, 'Your Excellency' would be appropriate. But just 'Gerald' will do nicely. Consider the permission to call me by my given name a token of my esteem."
Damien blinked. By now, he was under the distinct impression that he was missing something of vital importance. Since his arrival on the scene, the Hunter had thwarted every attempt at catching him with his pants down. Hordes of paparazzi had been stalking him around the clock for months now, but they had never gotten round to so much as taking a single unofficial shot of him, let alone digging out some juicy details about his past.
In some respects, Vryce could understand his reclusiveness only too well. More than one star had gone to pieces under the constant pressure of the media, and so there might be nothing more sinister behind his playing hide and seek than the genuine wish to stay out of harm's way. Other celebs like Howard Hughes and Greta Garbo had pulled off that routine decades before his time. Well, Hughes had supposedly been batty like a bat in his later days, but that didn't negate the point.
Seen from this angle, the Hunter's current behaviour was pretty bizarre. Why going to any length to shroud one's life in a veil of mystery, just to divulge one's name to the first scribbler allowed into the lion's den? It didn't make any sense. Even more astounding was the bullshit about the 'token of esteem'. They had never met before, but yet the man had made it sound as if they'd been best buddies for ages. Try as he might, Damien couldn't wrap his head around it.
To mask his bewilderment, he approached the small coffee table nearby and inspected the hefty tomes piled atop it. They weren't quite what he had expected. Anthologies on astronomy and aerospace technology were warring for space with no less intimidating monographs on the latest discoveries in quantum physics. "Holy crap! That's a hell of a demanding reading," he blurted out. "Just having a look at the indices would presumably give me a nasty headache. Do you honestly stick your nose into those reams, or are they just for decoration?"
"As a matter of fact, I composed them."
Damien's mouth fell open. "You're pulling my leg, right? I mean, come on, man, you're a rock star, count or not. That kind doesn't write books on quantum physics. It's simply not natural."
It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled faintly. "And what is 'that kind' supposed to do, if I may ask? Having sex with five groupies at a time and getting high on drugs? I'm sorry to disappoint you, but both possibilities fail to appeal to me."
"So you're really... what does it say on the cover? Gerald Tarrant?" Damien asked incredulously.
"The very same. But what's in a name, Vryce? I've been called so many of them in my long and rather colourful life."
"Now you're exaggerating. I turned thirty-two last month, and I'll eat my goddamn hat if you aren't a few years younger than I."
An elegantly arched eyebrow quirked in sardonic amusement. "Appearances can be deceiving sometimes. For a start, let's just say that I was twenty-nine when the parameters of my existence changed completely. I haven't looked back ever since. However, I find talking about a topic as mundane as our age somewhat boring. If you don't mind, I'd rather you accompanied me to my astronomy tower. Night has fallen, and you might get to see something interesting."
A lot of possible replies came to Damien's mind. He wanted to point out that he wasn't in the least keen on an astronomy lesson for the time being, that his - naturally non-existent - readers were burning to learn something about their idol's next projects and his boss was waiting for his story, but drowning in those silver eyes never leaving his own, he settled for a faint nod.
The Hunter rose to his feet in a motion so fluent and graceful that it evoked images of a stalking cat. When he saw him in full length at long last, Vryce noticed with a start that his garments were anything but the stuff one could buy at Marks & Sparks. Or at whatever halfway normal clothing store in Great Britain, for that matter. The last time he had come across a bloke running around in leggings and a calf-length tunic complete with matching cloak had been at a renaissance fair in Regent's Park, and it had looked fucking ridiculous. Not so here.
The robes of an age long gone by sat well on Tarrant, accentuated his height and slenderness in a most becoming fashion, but there was more to it than that. Every idiot with a few spare bucks in his pocket could buy a fancy dress and pretend to be someone else for one night. The custom-made dream of heavily embroidered silk and velvet flowing around the Hunter's lean frame had doubtlessly cost more than said 'few bucks", maybe even more than a humble Scotland Yard inspector could earn in a month, but that wasn't the point now. Much more important was the fact that it usually showed when people squeezed themselves into clothes they weren't used to, something the fake medieval knight in Regent's Park could testify to.
But Gerald Tarrant had no suchlike problems. He wore his robes with an air of utter naturalness quite amazing for a child of the twentieth century. The way he casually smoothed out a minuscule wrinkle in his tunic sleeve without even looking and gathered his cloak tighter around him when passing the coffee table left no doubt that he was no novice in those matters.
So the bastard is into wrapping himself in velvet and silk. Why the heck does that bother you so much? Damien thought while following him up a steep spiral staircase. He's entitled to wear whatever he wants in the privacy of his home, even if it were a goddamn trash bag. Maybe he and Vampirella downstairs have got a screw loose somewhere, but if that's truly the case, they're in good company on an island famous for her eccentric inhabitants.
But he knew that he was deceiving himself. He couldn't quite put his finger on it yet, but there was something very odd about the Hunter, and it wasn't just his choice of clothes. He might look like a man in his late twenties at first glance, and a strikingly handsome one at that, but there was an ageless quality about him, a calm and composure way beyond his young years that belied his flawless skin.
Very much against his will, Damien remembered the horror movies he had seen in his youth. A lot of actors had played things going bump in the night over the decades, with more or less success. The make-up artists had kitted them out with fangs, claws, contact lenses and whatever they had deemed fit to create a scary effect, but in the end, Lugosi and Co. hadn't been able to deny what they truly were beneath the mask: ordinary mortals with a weird job.
Tarrant was different. His eyes were human-shaped, his white teeth perfectly even, and his manners left nothing to be desired. But there was an almost palpable aura of power and authority radiating off him, a whiff of danger lurking beneath the pleasant facade that would make him ideal for the part. If that man ever starred in a vampire movie, he'd scare the hell out of people just by staring into the camera. Effortlessly.
"Vryce?"
Snapping back into reality, Damien realized that they had reached the top of the spiral staircase. The Hunter had already stepped outside, holding the black metal door open for him. For a moment frozen in time, the doorway looked like a gaping maw to him, and he shuddered. Then he shrugged off his anxiety and followed Tarrant into the night.
