For if she flees, soon she will pursue.

If she refuses gifts, rather will she give them.

If she does not love, soon she will love

even unwilling.

– Fragment 1, Sappho (translated by Anne Carson)

The attack of the Vampyre is as inevitable as the ravages of Disease or Vapours, and preventions must be made accordingly. It is an artful arrangement that the very belief in such Evil has become a taboo of bygone days. The longer it is ignored, the longer the creature has to sap the Strength and Vigour of its victims. This ignorance is the cause of countless deaths, in Antiquity and up to our new Modern age. Far more than malice does carelessness lead to destruction. Its actions are as just and befitting as the disease it disguises itself as. The Vampyre does not feed on the wicked, it feeds on fools. 

– Excerpt from Ephraim Spice’s (1754 - 1821) unpublished manuscript

PART ONE

Her father came home in the midst of a storm. After what seemed an endless wait, it ended in one fell swoop. The front doors burst open, clattering against the walls, and in walked a hunched, soaked phantom, the wide brim of his hat glistening with the silver-soaked rain. Pearl was on the stairs, having risen from bed at the sound of the carriage coming round the house.

At first it seemed that his lurching step was due to his heavy case, held together by knotted leather ropes. But as Pearl rushed down to greet him, it became obvious even in the black parlor: he was hurt.

He was cold to the touch. Pearl took his arm to lead him over to his chair. His weathered hand shook as it moved, obviously without him thinking, to press into a spot just below his heart.

Pearl greeted him kindly, her voice soft. The combination of darkness and the fear that clenched her stomach made it a struggle to speak at all. She attempted to check his apparent injury, but Father waved it off with good humor.

“Your old man took a bad tumble, that’s all,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I’ve missed you too.”

The coachman brought in the remaining luggage, and the maid was summoned from her rest to light the hearth in Father’s study. Pearl longed to sit and speak with him until the sun split the storm— but there was hardly another word exchanged before he was slipping into that room, that masculine space from which she was forbidden.

Oh, how she had missed her father! Brave, kindly old Father, always away on one adventure or the other. Pearl had lived for nearly one and twenty years with his absence as routine. She had kept house in his wake, and thought she’d done a rather good job, for what little she’d had to do; the servants were organized and good-mannered, and it was their well-oiled laborings that kept all else in order. Pearl had nothing but kind words to speak of her father on social calls; she pored over his few letters (it is vanishingly difficult to write on such journeys) and read them on and on until she could recite his scrawl like psalms. She prayed for his good health and continuing fortunes, the same as she wished on Aubrey and all her other loved ones, every night. It was domestic bliss, save for the fact that she’d been all alone.

Her nightly routine, in such a state, had become a sort of ritual. Father had taught her well in this regard, as in most others. It was an exercise in caution that had done well to preserve her for so long. 

Pearl kept her mother’s cross on at all times, even during evening baths. Always she would feel that cold silver across her collarbone, like an anchor holding her to earth. She brushed out her hair, a hundred strokes a night. On happy days, she would maybe hum a little tune, and the maid would come in to refresh the garlic blossoms in her bedside vase. 

Her prayers would follow, with her kneeling on the floor, elbows bent, until her early hour of sleep slipped away. The light beyond the window drained away, leaving only indigo darkness. Some nights Pearl would cry, for all she wanted was someone to keep her company in the lonely lurch of waiting— but most nights she remained strong, and kept her prayers positive and contrite.

Then, Pearl would rise and follow sight of her reflection as she approached her window on the far wall. She had always been plain, and looked plainer still in her white nightclothes. She was an ungainly lamb with a wan, long little face and a square body. Rarely did she pay her reflection much attention at all. She went to the window to check the latch, and make sure it was secured tight. All of the windows in her house remained secured all night, and hers the most important of all.

This routine was interrupted by Father’s return. Welcome though it was, it had dashed any hope of her sleeping further.

Having returned to bed, she reclined there for what seemed hours. Sleep evaded her. She thought of her father, the wound he’d kept hidden, the fresh wrinkles on his once bright face. Her father was growing old, and Pearl found herself adrift in fears of the coming days.

Could she bear it? Such a possibility was inevitable. All went with God, in the end. Pearl, now the wife of her dear Aubrey, receiving a letter with the dreadful news. The thought was a heavy object that sat, unincorporated, in the center of her mind. She had never known a life without her father. She did not want to. Could she bear it?

The storm was still banging at the shutters when she lifted herself, donned her dressing gown and slippers, and shuffled into the hall. Though the house was dreadfully dark, Pearl only had to continue onwards and follow the light from Father’s study. The door was open, her father in his chair, noble back hunched and eyes filled with darkness.

A familiar voice washed over her ear like a soothing balm.

Aubrey had come!

This was not so unusual– Aubrey visited her family so often, he was as much a fixture of the house as she was. When Pearl was left alone, he could not stay the night— he would never be so improper— but sometimes he would stay late enough to see her off to sleep. Those were the greatest moments, the ones that made the waiting bearable. He would read from her Bible in a slow, soothing voice (though not without the occasional, jesting aside) while she lay in bed and, though she tried to keep her eyes on his fine face, her eyelids would droop and she would fall into a full, languishing sleep.

Pearl butted up against the door frame. The two men sat across from each other; Father smoked a pipe while Aubrey sat with an absurd look about him, like a soldier fresh from war. Even then, he was handsome. His pink lips were parted, his jawline carved by the light of the flickering hearth.

Father’s shirt was pulled open, baring his bandaged wound to terrible vision. It sat just below his heart, the edges wet with blood. His breathing was slow despite the obvious pain held within him. His coat was draped over the back of his chair, casting a shadow that made him seem larger than the constraints of the room.

His voice was a dark croak that hardly escaped the bottom of his dropping mustache. “It’s over.”

Aubrey, meanwhile, appeared quite small and pale. The brave part of Pearl, the part that loved Aubrey more than custom or propriety could say, yearned to rush over and comfort him. It hurt her to see him so: auburn hair slicked to his forehead (be it from rain or sweat), his skin white and clammy, several gold buttons on his waistcoat undone  as if, in his distress, he’d begun undressing. 

This last feature turned Pearl bashful. She did not announce her presence.

“But that was only one nest!” Aubrey gasped. “Surely there will be more like it? And they will want vengeance—”

“Do not misunderstand me,” Father said. “There was nothing like it in all the world, or in your wildest imaginings. This was not a mere hideaway. This was the origin of them all.”

“And now…?”

“And now they are all dead.”

Aubrey put a hand to his brow. Sitting back in his chair, he asked, “Losses?”

“Seven men,” said Ephraim, “including Shackley.”

“Good God.”

Father’s nod was grim. “He was taken at dusk, when we were clearing out the farm. We had thought, quite foolishly, that the battle was over.”

Aubrey nodded.

“He had been devoured whole, with no body. We believe it was the basilisk, which had reformed itself while we dealt with the other loose ends. We burned it, and the other one I made sure to behead, mount on a stake and—”

A gasp slipped from between Pearl’s lips.

Father lowered his pipe and frowned. Pearl remained frozen where she was, hidden behind the doorframe.

Aubrey hadn’t heard. “So, what is there to do?”

“We must prevent them from continuing their species,” said Ephraim, eyes upon the  door. “If there was to be a rally of hunters now, in the lull where they are the weakest— there will be none left to revive their kind.”

“And how could we bring that about?”

Ephraim leaned back in his seat and blew a ring of smoke into the space between him and Aubrey.

Said he, “Pearl. Come here.”

It was mortifying, to move! She put one foot in front of the other, head lolling downwards. Only when the chair creaked did she rush into the light.

“Oh, Father, do not get up for me. You’re hurt!”

“What are you doing up at such an hour, darling?” Aubrey turned around with a fright.

Pearl’s heart clenched. “I—I—”

The study was narrow, filled to the brim with bright and mystical mementos from her father’s work. In the dark shadows cast by the hearth, it felt as if every evil eye ward was staring straight on her. Father, also, looked with a disappointed gaze.

“I was only checking if you needed something. Perhaps some tea, or…?”

“That is what the servants are for.”

Then what am I for? Pearl thought— though what she said was, “I only wished to help…”

“Which you do,” Father said, “by doing as you are told.”

Pearl wilted. No matter the circumstances, Pearl’s tongue always betrayed her. She could never lie to her father. “I heard Aubrey, and wished for his company. And… and, for yours, Father. It’s been ever so long, and I wished to learn about your trip to the Mediterranean.”

She lowered her head in shame. Aubrey reached out, the faintest brush of his fingertips against the back of her hand, and the shame doubled.

“I tell you what you need to know, so that you might be protected,” Father said. “Nothing more. It’ll only frighten you witless.”

It had! Tears sprang up in Pearl’s eyes. “Oh, Father! Forgive me. I am sorry for behaving so…”

She fell at his feet and buried her face in his knee. 

Father stroked her curls and said, “I know you meant no harm, little one. Now, get on back to bed.”

On the next occasion that Pearl met Aubrey, it was as if that night in the study was only a bad dream. In no time at all, they returned to the comfort of routine, of social calls and church and Pearl’s temperance group. The wealthiest family in Boston, imitating English habits, launched a giant soirée in celebration of St. Valentine’s Day, and Aubrey and Pearl had been invited as a pair of lovebirds, though they spent much of the ball in separate circles.

Aubrey was a social butterfly who flitted about the party accordingly. Pearl more resembled a moth clinging to a lamp. She would not have come at all had Georgia Cary not also been attending.

Georgia was Pearl’s oldest and dearest friend. Where Pearl was plain, Georgia was dazzling; where Pearl was shy and modest, Georgia was the most amorous girl around— in her younger years, often finding herself in trouble by her unrepentant flirting with the local boys. Pearl was mousy and brown-haired, Georgia blonde and willowy.

Pearl took every opportunity to see her friend; since Georgia’s marriage to a wealthy fishmonger a year prior, they had hardly seen each other at all. Her dear friend had moved to a house near the docks where once they had been neighbors. Pearl fretted that perhaps Mr. Cary would break Georgia’s spirit, once and for all.

But Pearl needn’t have worried!

“Look at that buffoon in his pansy breeches!” Georgia laughed, arm-in-arm with Pearl. “Who does he think he is?”

“Your husband, I reckon.”

“Ah, right.” Georgia pouted. “I suppose that gives me all the more right to criticize.”

Georgia would not have dreamed of wearing a pair of unfashionable pansy breeches. She had arrived at the ball in a high-waisted citrine gown, a choker of pearls around her neck and an ostrich feather perched in her golden hair.

They were on the second floor, walking arm in arm. Georgia’s fan tapped against Pearl’s elbow as they strolled towards the descending staircase.

Pearl wore a dress from the year previous, for there was no reason to waste it; a pale pink cotton gown with ruffles along the collar and skirt. She had no accessories, only gray stockings and simple shoes.

“Aubrey gave me a gift last night,” Pearl said. Though her voice was barely above a whisper, Georgia latched onto it at once.

“Oh? What is it?”

Said Pearl, “A diamond brooch.”

“A diamond?”

“Brooch.” Pearl nodded miserably. “I’ll never wear it.”

The windows above the stairs were flooded with milky, wintry light. Georgia lifted the edge of her skirt, casting a knowing look downwards, as they began to descend. The railings were twined with red roses plucked of thorns, and Pearl had to take great pains not to disturb them.

“I did not ask for anything,” continued Pearl. “It makes me morbid. He insists on buying me these gaudy things that I will never wear.”

“You could.”

“I do not care to.” Pearl sighed. “And one would think my soon-to-be-husband would understand as such. But whenever I try to speak of such things, it’s as if he’s gone dumb! It’s like he does not know me at all…”

“How could he not?” Georgia said. “He’s known you for nearly as long as I have.”

“He’s not like you, Georgia-dear.”

“Well, of course! No one can compare.”

Georgia’s hand tightened around Pearl’s arm. She proceeded to comfort Pearl as they reached the hall: Aubrey was a silly man, an oafish fool easily blinded by love, and she would be able to improve his conduct given time.

Pearl was embarrassed by her outburst, and soothed by her dear friend’s reassurances, hollow though they were. How could Georgia understand Aubrey better than her? Pearl knew better than to take Aubrey for a fool. He was, after all, her father’s apprentice, and doubtless a shrewd expert in the occult. He was only a flighty layabout in public, not in all things.

Oftentimes, he was gentle. When he kept her company for long stretches in the parlor, he was always smiling and jovial. He listened to her speak, even when she had nothing worthwhile to say (which was often). She could vision his face in those moments, carved from endless repetitions: his soft cheek tinted orange by the fire, the glow of his hair, the passion in his eyes. Pearl was fortunate, more fortunate than she could fathom, to be so loved.

Aubrey had been her father’s apprentice for years; their engagement was certain long before it had been penned. He was a young man, only a few years her senior, with such a bright, clear countenance. He was fit and trim, stylish without being foppish, funny without a hint of cruelty. Pearl had been taken with him at first sight: how could she not? She was a girl, reared under the large, white wings of a loving father— and here before her was a boy much the same. Eager to be trained, and even more eager to please. It was the most natural thing in the world.

With her mind focused, it was trivial to seek him out in the crowd. There he was, in the midst of a conversation with a rather short gentleman. Her fiancé’s face was red from sherry, and his glass wobbled in the air.

Nearby, unnoticed by the two men, a group had begun a rowdy game. One had snatched a miniature bow and arrow meant for the effigy of Cupid, and another sprinted to the wall with an apple in hand.

Aubrey’s new acquaintance had his back to Pearl and Georgia; all that could be made out was his head of black, exotic-looking curls.

“Who’s that dandy your beau is entertaining?”

“I don’t know.” Pearl frowned.

Georgia wasted no time in hailing a smart-looking fellow to interrogate. His reply was enthusiastic and immediate, despite the gale of cheering for the intrepid William Tell.

“Oh, that’s Miss Zannouli! She’s just come up from the Greek Isles.”

“Shoot ‘em dead!”

“Excuse me–” Georgia glanced between the man she was interrogating and the man she was asking after. “Did you just say ‘miss’?”

“Did I say what?”

“Miss Zan– Zallo– whatever it was!”

The false arrow was shot. It passed right before the ladies, stirring the tailcoats of their partner. He paused his reply to view the commotion. The man who’d put the apple on his head now clutched his left eye.

“Sure did.” He returned to Georgia. “Strange one, eh? But I suppose it’s what you have to expect with those foreign types.”

Aubrey and the gentle…woman also observed the scene. Upon sight of the stranger’s face, the mistake seemed all the sillier. It was plainly a woman’s face: perhaps less delicate than desirable, but nowhere near as harsh as a man’s. She watched without a word, only a half-smile hidden behind the top of her glass.

“Someone should tell her how to dress!” Georgia gasped. “Poor dear, she must be so used to wearing her chiton around…”

Pearl could not escape the talk of this strange, wealthy foreigner for the rest of the night. Wild rumors were passed around like party favors. It was said that she spoke seven languages, that the clothes she wore were those of her dead husband (a peculiar form of penance known only to certain superstitious Greek peasants), that her wealth must certainly have come from business dealings of the unsavory sort, for there was no way she had any noble blood. 

When Pearl went out into the garden for a stroll, she was surrounded on all sides by gentlemen and ladies stumbling over Zannouli’s foreign name, like nails tearing through heavy cloth.

Below the strings of Chinese lanterns, Pearl fiddled with the silver cross underneath her collar. She passed prickly bushes, nearly vibrating in their anticipations of turning green; she indulged the grass underneath her feet, strained her ears to hear the sound of birds as dusk fell. Spring was nearly here— only two seasons away from autumn, when she and Aubrey would at last be wed. The time was practically at hand.

Despite (or perhaps due to) the excitement, Pearl spoke to Zannouli only once. It occurred when Pearl was returning from the garden, after darkness had fallen. She was searching for a companion, but found only strangers. In a moment, she was rather embarrassedly overwhelmed, with tears forming in her eyes. She had thought herself well-suited to being alone. Evidently not.

Though perhaps it was intended as a kindness, Pearl’s distress was not soothed upon being approached by such a strange foreigner, gloved hand held out, balancing the largest ruby ring Pearl had ever seen. Pearl cast her eyes about, hoping that Aubrey would be there, intending to introduce Pearl to his new companion. But it was only her, and her alone.

“You seem a stranger in a strange land,” said Zannouli, a dark glint in her eye. She had a gaze like hot coals, donned in all black.

Pearl panicked— she was unclear of what script to follow, whether she was introducing herself to a man or a woman. She fell into a curtsy.

“Pearl Spice, si–ma’am. Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to–”

“You ought to be downstairs, I’d say.”

With the servants? Pearl was dizzy with confusion, for a moment– then the indignation set in.

“I am quite happy precisely where God had seen fit to place me.” Pearl stood up. “I understand that you may not be familiar with our customs, Miss, but it is unspeakably rude to interrupt when one is–”

Zannouli laughed. “Oh, of course.”

Again, she held out her hand— as if Pearl was a gentleman, and expected to kiss it. The repulsion was immediate. Zannouli had a masculine bearing but a woman’s delicate hands; she had olive skin but teeth so white they blinded; she had a mess of curls, and even facial hair in the form of sideburns that ran down the edge of her delicate cheeks. And now Pearl was expected to touch this bizarre creature.

Pearl did not kiss the hand— she shook it, which was almost as offensive to her sensibilities. Zannouli smelt of tobacco and rum, the remnant of which clung to Pearl the whole night through.

Zannouli then remained, drink in hand and another in her pocket. Pearl’s search for Aubrey became more desperate; she twiddled with her sleeves, her eyes roving the smoky hall. She was standing up against the wall, and the party was at its dimmest and quietest as of yet. She thought she might’ve seen Aubrey pass through the doorway, speaking to Miss Morgan, but no— no, probably not.

She hardly realized that Zannouli was speaking— she, while eyeing the scene of the bloody arrow, inquired whether or not Pearl was familiar with the myth of Cupid. Pearl was, at least dimly— her father was ever fond of the Hellenistic period— but she replied with a negative, only half an ear on her uninvited partner.

“Cupid, the god of erotic love,” Zannouli said, “had two arrows. One with a leaden tip that, when struck with, would inspire deep-set hatred.”

“Hm?”

“And the other was used to incite intense, uncontrollable lust.”

Pearl’s cheeks colored at the sudden use of vulgarity, though all she responded with was a note of interest. There, sitting near the hearth, was Georgia! Pearl saw Georgia, but Georgia did not see her, for she was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Catherine Thorpe.

“I suppose this is very dull talk, for you,” said Zannouli.

“No, no, not at all!” said Pearl. “I find it very interesting. I once read a story with Cupid. About the god Apollo and—”

“That poor, poor girl.”

“I do not think necessarily so. It is quite a romantic story, in my mind.”

“How so?”

Pearl changed the subject. “Are these the sort of stories you’ve grown up with in your homeland, Miss Zannouli?”

“One could say that. Miss— Spice, was it?”

“Ye—”

“Would you do the same?”

“E— excuse me?”

“What would you do,” Zannouli said, “if Cupid jealously struck Apollo with his golden arrow and now, consumed with an insatiable desire for your flesh, you were to be endlessly pursued until he got hold of you?”

“I would reason with him.”

“You cannot reason with him.”

“Then, I would hide.”

“And he would invariably find you.”

“Then, I would pray to Zeus and become a laurel tree!” said Pearl. “What sort of question is this, Miss Zannouli, when you only expect the one answer?”

Pearl was at once ashamed of her outburst. Miss Zannouli was not put off by it— in fact, she smiled. Pearl looked away, and met the eye of Georgia, who was rising from her seat. Her friend arrived just at the right moment to avert Zannouli’s attention. The Greek exchanged only a few words with Georgia, seeming uninterested, and soon swept away into the crowd. Despite this, the rising aggravation remained, same as the stench of gin.

Just as it seemed that her disturbance might cease, and Pearl would forget Zannouli at last, she spotted the man-woman again while leading a drunken Aubrey to their carriage.

Out on the street, an eerily calm figure amongst the crowd of fleeing revelers, Zannouli stood in a high collared coat and top hat, a cigar to her lips. At the wave of her hand, a man— larger than any Pearl had seen before— emerged from the shadows. He had a lit cigar, and sank to his knees to set the tip of it against hers. The light flared for a moment; the brief glimpse of it dazzled Pearl’s eyes, and all over again it felt as if ants were crawling along her skin.

In the carriage, Aubrey let out a pained sigh; he’d seen nothing, as his eyes were closed. Pearl still felt dirty from her encounter with the foul Zannouli, and miffed at Aubrey for being so sociable— in Pearl’s mind, inviting the association. What if Zannouli got the impression she was a friend?

Father had been right as always— the overheard conversation had frightened her. Pearl had been plagued with nightmares in which her father stuck Aubrey’s head on a pike and roasted it over a bonfire. But at that moment, between his drinking and the brooch and the insufferable foreigner, Pearl wondered if the image would perhaps come welcome tonight.

Then, Aubrey sobbed, and all anger left her. 

“Good… good God… Shackley, that…”

Pearl laid a hand on Aubrey’s arm, which halted his words. They sat in the silence, wheels rattling against cobblestones as Aubrey let out a stream of awful, raking sobs.

Pearl said, “You were close to him?”

“No, no…” Aubrey wiped his nose. “I hardly knew him at all.”

“Then what has upset you so?”

“He… Ransom Shackley was a spiteful, cold bastard—”

Pearl winced at his language.

“— but he was a good hunter. The best, after your father, perhaps. But they still got ‘im. If he didn’t stand a chance, then how could I ever…?”

Aubrey stopped himself. Realizing his loose mouth, he turned to Pearl with the frightened eyes of a jackrabbit. Pearl held his hand very tightly.

“Darling…” said Pearl, “when you and Father were speaking in the study… he spoke of a ‘farm’…” Her stomach twisted, as if she were ill. “What did he mean?”

Aubrey tore his eyes away from hers. “You heard nothing.”

“But I—”

“It’s all over, now. It will only hurt you.”

“Darling, please.” Pearl squeezed his hand again. “I can see that it is hurting you so. I want to understand.”

Aubrey set his mouth firmly closed despite his lingering drunkenness.

“Will you do this to me when I am your wife?” Pearl’s heart skipped a beat at the word. “Will you shut me out of doors if I do not please you? Will you lock me away to shield your bleeding heart?”

“Of course not!” Aubrey snapped, weakly.

“You will, you will! I can see it in your eyes.”

Aubrey stared downwards. Said he, “I only want you to be safe.”

“And I only want to help, darling.”

He was quiet for a long while. Through the carriage windows, Pearl recognized the curve of her street through the fog. She was running out of time.

“You can tell no one,” Aubrey said.

“Yes, yes.” Pearl nodded.

Aubrey pulled her close. In that intimate carriage, their hands intertwined, Pearl felt as if she were on fire, and her heart pounded like the running of the bulls.

“There were women on that farm,” Aubrey said, and broke the fairytale glamour of the moment. “The monsters had been keeping human slaves. To harvest their blood.”

“What?”

Aubrey broke away, covering his face. “I’ve made a terrible mistake!”

Pearl was floundering. She was too in shock, frozen in the halted carriage, to scream what she ought to have said: By telling the truth?