Savage Devotions: The Vampire Hunters of Prague by Ligeia
Part 2.
For the first time in years he had felt the quickening of his pulse, that thrill of certainty mixed with disgust and a deep sadness that came with the recognition that he was on the right track again at last. For decades he had taken newspapers from all over the world, neatly cutting out certain articles and storing them in his quarters among his regular correspondence then discreetly disposing of the rest of the papers so they could not see which items he had removed. The news of the world kept his mind active he told them, allowed him to journey to distant places from the safety of his room. It wouldn't do, no it wouldn't do at all to let them know that his obsession, the one that drove his friends and family to beg him to commit himself to professional care so long ago, still smouldered. That decision had in time become a blessing; his days and nights could be devoted solely to his crusade without the distraction of society or career. When he came across the series of police reports, the grisly details of which were so hauntingly familiar, he knew that it was time to make his move.
Thanking God for giving him the chance to redeem himself, the opportunity to set things right, he carefully burned all of the news cuttings he had hidden away inside envelopes and between the pages of his books and diaries. If the nurses or orderlies were to find them, well, psychiatric patients - even voluntary ones - who collected clippings of child murders were unlikely to be released under any circumstances. Into his old Gladstone bag he packed the few items from which he could not afford to be separated. All of his savings were kept locked in a small deposit box. His passport, which he kept renewed along with the driver's licence he had but never used, were safe inside his jacket pocket. And from a waterproof bag that he kept wedged beneath the old claw-foot bath in his en suite, the most precious thing of all – an artefact he had kept for all the years of his incarceration – the weapon that would ensure the destruction of the she-wolf who murdered his little sister.
-o-o-o-o-
The Old Town Square was a favourite night-time haunt for the two vampires. Prague's heart for eight hundred years, the street's pastel gingerbread Baroque and neo-Renaissance facades turned to gold under the glow of the streetlamps, its illusive beauty like that of the undead lovers, an exquisite exterior revealing nothing of the crumbling gothic ruins inside. A constant stream of locals and tourists passed by, unconsciously brushing against them, perhaps even smiling at the young couple so obviously enjoying their evening stroll, piquing the senses of the hunting pair and arousing their urge to feed. It was a delicious preliminary to the real thing, whetting their appetites for the kill. And after that, once their physical hunger was sated, other needs would surface. Drusilla would begin to yearn again to fulfil another desire.
Spike put an arm around Dru's waist from behind and pulled her close to him. Leaning against the rough stonework under the double faces of the astronomical clock, he said quietly, 'See anything you like, luv? Anyone take your fancy?'
Drusilla's grey-blue eyes raked the crowd, scanning, alighting, rejecting, until a small tilt of the head told Spike that a likely target had been fixed upon. Dru tensed in his embrace and she began quietly to hum a little tune -
'When little Baby goes to sleep, and he is very near us,
Then on tip-toe softly creep, that Baby may not hear us.'
- the accompaniment, he recognised, to a decision being made. His gaze followed the direction of hers to a young woman standing by the lit window of a toy store, the display full of colourful wooden marionettes and an old-style train set circling round and round. Tugging on her coat was a small boy three or four years of age obviously entranced by the little green engine, smiling and laughing as his mother ruffled his blond hair and made promises that would now never be kept. As they walked off down the broad street, two figures followed.
-o-o-o-o-
In another part of the Stare Mesto, in the basement of a 17th century mansion long gone to seed, a secret meeting was in progress. Long reconciled to a lonely vigil and likely a violent and horrible death in pursuit of his quarry, the old man's weary heart was warmed by the sight of forty or so people assembled with the self-same resolution burning in their souls – to rid the city of the hellish demoness and her consort. While only a handful of the group spoke any English, their common purpose provided all the understanding necessary as the old man offered up insights gained through years of patient study and a lifetime of aching memories.
Unwrapping the package that he had guarded and concealed from days long before his admittance to St Jerome's, he glanced around him at the eager faces of his new-found comrades, exposing the weapon that would deliver up the beast Drusilla to the vampire hunters of Prague.
-o-o-o-o-
After following the woman and child to their home not far from the Square, Spike gently dragged a reluctant Dru away to hunt for a more substantial meal. She pouted and complained but allowed him to lead her off towards less genteel neighbourhoods, to parts of the city's underbelly where the deaths of one of two members of the fringe element would most likely go unremarked. Spike knew Drusilla would rather have stayed close by the tidy suburban house until the child could be made hers but he also knew from experience that hunger would get the better of her in the end and the child would not last – and then who would be berated for not stemming her impulsiveness?
So now they rested in a park on the corner of the street not far from the little boy's home, sated and mellow, waiting for the last of the house lights to fade to black. Dru sat on wooden swing in the play area, rocking back and forth on her heels to the tune of some long-forgotten children's song while Spike smoked another cigarette, a Gauloise this time, which was all the dead sailor had had in his kit.
Watching Dru, long legged and sweetly flushed from the hunt, he realised that of all the years they had travelled with Angelus and Darla and all the times they had spent apart, he liked it best as it was now - just to two of them together. While the four of them, and occasional temporary additions to the clan, had parted and come together again and again over the decades, the vampire family had finally and irrevocably disbanded after Angelus regained his human soul. Everything changed after that; without Angelus, Darla lost interest in their little dynasty. Playing at being a 'family' was a game to her, like most things, and she had tired of it in the end, including them less and less often in her hunts until, at last, Spike and Dru had drifted away on their own.
Angelus had always preferred to hunt young women and occasionally young men – he was highly attractive to both sexes, charismatic and powerful; Darla liked to draw out the hunt, role-playing everything from lady to saint to whore. Spike liked the danger, to test himself, often engineering situations where he would have to fight his way out, relishing the challenge. He had killed two Slayers and basked in the attention his fame attracted from other vampires they met. Dru, on the other hand, had always had a taste for children, the younger the better. Of all their kills, this brought them the most trouble.
The last light went out upstairs in the house down the street. 'Come on, precious,' he called. 'Time to go.'
-o-o-o-o-
The front pages of the newspapers next morning were blazoned with the headline that none in the city had wanted to see repeated; another child had been taken in the middle of the night. In offices and factories, on public transport and in shops, over the garden fences of Prague the only topic of conversation was 'would this one be found alive?'
Children had gone missing over the past few months; not unusual perhaps in a city of that size except that in each case a tiny drained body was found soon after. But they were not merely bled out and dumped; each small waxen corpse was placed in a tableau, their violated bodies dressed, hair brushed, sometimes in costumes from nursery rhymes, always with dolls or other toys, as though they had just left off playing. White socks and black patent leather shoes were unspotted; each child had been carried there. They looked like dolls themselves then, bloodless and glassy-eyed. Barely noticeable were the two tiny puncture wounds on the throat. From all over the city children had been kidnapped, only to appear days later, their flesh turned to porcelain - broken dolls discarded in lonely parts of the city - on vacant lots, in sheltered corners of parks, the last one on a playground. Hysteria swept Prague.
The old man put down the newspaper. The city was in an uproar but he knew the police would never find the killer. Only he knew who she was. Toys they were, these dead babies, but not for any child, no, nor woman neither. Merciful God, he prayed, let us find the devils this time before it is too late.
[to be continued...]