Aubrey’s head must’ve been cleaved in twain— it was the only means of explaining this feeling. He groaned. The damp sand had sapped away the heat from his body, and he was now deliriously cold. He opened his eyes.

Between him and the black sky stood a woman. She was of an ambiguous age; old but not decrepit, light brown hair flicked with silver, and one gray glass eye. She wore a plain, stiff brown dress and a disheveled men’s coat with mismatched buttons. She held a lantern high above his head, and the fringe of her tartan scarf tickled his stomach.

“You’re a real daft fuckin cunt,” said she.

“Wha…?” Aubrey gasped. He looked about him, but the beach was dark and empty.

“Get up.” She toed him with her boot.

Aubrey did so, painfully. He shook the sand from his hair. “I don’t understand. You’re–” Ephraim Spice’s maid, he realized then.

“Moira Ruthven,” she said. “And you’re fucked if you donnae follow me.”

“Huh? But I–” He jolted suddenly. “Pearl! Where’s Pearl? I have to save–”

“She’s too far gone, Mister Darvell,” said Moira. She grabbed the front of his shirt. “But you ain’t.”

Aubrey was brought, in his stupor, to the dismal place Moira lived.

In the attic of the Spice house was a chamber of dank wood; a place that smelled of smoke and dust, coating his throat; a place that, no matter how powerfully the fire roared, remained cold to the touch.

He tried to speak her on the walk.

“Far gone… far gone…” said he. “What do you mean by such a thing?”

“Tell me about Ianthe Zannouli.”

“She’s an extraordinary fellow,” Aubrey blurted out. “Devastatingly clever and– and well-dressed, even if– fuck– even if–”

“What don’tcha like about her?”

“N–nothing!” Aubrey blinked.

“Now tell me about the vampire.”

Aubrey opened his mouth, but nothing but a strained whine came out.

Moira gave a grim smile. “Ya understand?”

“Noo…” He suddenly clutched his head.

He heard Moira’s voice as if through a field of cold, dense fog. “You’ve been caught in a web, Mister Darvell. If this continues, you’ll become nothing but its pawn. Miss Pearl canny be saved. You still stand a fightin chance, should you break out now.”

“Should I… I… what? I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.”

And then, he was in the attic.

She pulled a tasseled cord to draw back a heavy curtain. Aubrey half-expected to see something miraculous from his unexpected savior(?)– a witch’s cauldron bubbling with glowing green potions, or a gleaming sword only waiting for its worthy wielder.

Instead, there was a bed with plain flannel sheets, yellowed from overwashing. There was a long empty table grooved with old cuts, a hearth, a chair and a spinning wheel. The wall was filled to bursting with bizarre instruments: hanging bundles of herbs, jars of dirt and stone.

“Done starin?” Moira cocked her hip.

“Wha– what are you?”

“Get on the table.”

Moira shrugged off her coat and scarf and laid them on the back of her chair. She sat down and began to light the hearth.

Aubrey hefted himself up, unable to tear his eyes away from the maid. The singular spot of light, save for the burgeoning hearth, was the lantern she had brought from outside. It hung on a hook beside a string of garlic.

She turned to him with a cold gaze. The faintly flickering lamp fell upon her cheek, deepening the lines on her face.

“You have been touched by a beast the likes of which av never seen.”

Aubrey said nothing– couldn’t.

Moira rose to her feet. From a hook above the hearth, she unlooped a rope. “It’s been stalkin this gaff for months. It's already eaten its fill of your Pearl. It wants more, and you’re in the way.”

“H-how do you know that?”

Moira’s skirt swept the dirty floor as she approached him. “Th’night that you and Mister Spice went to help the young married bird, I was woken in my bed– but I donnae recall anythin else.”

“What? How?”

“Pearl let it– she’s been lettin it in. According to Mister Spice, in that space I spoke to him, made a bath, and washed her sheets. And I remember none of it.”

She began to wrap the rope around his wrists.

Aubrey pulled them away. “Stop! What are you–?”

“This is for your own good, ya dumb bastard.” She flicked his forehead. “I canny get the beastie’s fingers out of you if you’re lashing about my table.”

“B-but!” Aubrey gasped. “I do not want to es—”

What had he been saying? His voice died, and he sat in bewildered stillness. Moira bound his wrists. She moved on to his ankles.

“Ah!” He jolted, and nearly kicked her in the head. “You wish to free me from—? But, I cannot! Escape is impossible!”

“I’ll see to that.” Moira’s hands were strong, for a woman’s. Though Aubrey struggled, it was all in vain. He was pushed lengthwise onto the table, his feet bound, trussed up like a pig for Christmas dinner. She bound his wrists and his legs to another and left him on the table. His protestations died, as he saw no way out. It did not matter much. He did not want to escape, but escape was impossible. He could not even think—

Moira lit several candles, and let down a metal pot from the shelf. She redonned her coat and, without a hint of a smile, said, “Now, donnae wander off, lad.”

Aubrey watched the flames dance, sick with tension. If Pearl had somehow returned– if Pearl was as Moira had claimed, and letting the foul vampire into their home– how was he going to– how was he going to stop it– how–

He could not track the time, but Moira was gone for quite a stretch. When she returned, and had put on a strange concoction of water and herbs to boil, he inquired about where she had gone.

“Mister Spice had need of me,” said she, and scoffed. “The old fool.”

“Watch your mouth!” Aubrey struggled to sit upright. “Ephraim Spice is a legend. Who are you to talk of your master that way?”

“Gonnae tell me to know my place, lad?” She rattled her spoon against the side of the pot. “Need ah remind ya who’s your master at the moment?”

“But– the– my–” he stuttered. “I had no choice in that matter.”

Moira sat in the wooden chair, and stirred the pot. A strong smell wafted through the room, burning Aubrey’s nostrils. Her feet flat on the ground, still in the coat, she spoke.

“No. ‘Course not…”

Aubrey repeated himself, “Who are you?”

“My name is Moira Ruthven. My father was a vampire. I know more than you or your mentor can even imagine.”

“Oh.”

“Keep still.” Moira flicked the spoon towards his face; drops of hot water fell upon his crown.

“What are you—?” Aubrey said.

Then, he stopped.

Then, he started screaming.

Agony, unlike anything he had ever known, flowed through his body. It was a hissing, burning sensation, from the tip of his forehead and radiating out. Before he thrashed his way onto the floor, Moria pushed him back onto the table. With his wrists rubbed raw and bleeding, he broke his bonds and clawed, nails out, at her. Moria put an elbow to his neck and forced him down. Everywhere the water had touched him felt as if it were burning– through his clothes, his skin, his very soul.

The pain was such that he lost all meaning of sight and time. At some point in his lashings, he’d hit her in the face, he’d bit her. But somehow, she had managed to tie him down again, on his back. The ropes, this time, held.

Moira stood above, the shabbiest of shamans, and continuously anointed him with the water. Her chanting was sparse and flat. She spoke of things he could not understand— of the future, of the freedom, of banishing. He caught the ritual in fits and starts; the room filled with the smell of incense. Charred bones of the wooden floor. Strong hands against his jaw, holding his mouth closed.

“Keep screamin like tha,” Moira said, “and you might start spewin.”

The pain was not in his body, but his mind. When he forced his eyes closed, he could almost vision the scorching imprint of chains about his throat.

Moira was on the floor, and the room was filled with smoke. The soot lined the bottom of her hem; there was blood on the floor, tiny wheeling entrails that glittered and– perhaps– squirmed. Something was dead, and its blood lined the underside of her cracked fingernails.

“Remember your oath,” Moira said.

Aubrey jolted. He had to— he remembered all— his master had bade him, but— but this woman was not his master!

He opened his mouth, and from it came a stream of foamy bile.

“Not ready!” Moira whacked his head with her spoon. “Back down, lad.”

He struggled against her. He remembered who he was, who he served, and he did not want to escape! But Moira— she was so strong. Her face smudged across his vision; she had such wide, glossy eyes. Was she entranced, too? No, no. The room reeked of sharp, sweet poison. She’d done it to herself. And to what end?

Remember.

Remember.

Yes, Aubrey remembered. He remembered being a lost lamb in a stormy field, and the way the sky glittered and slithered. He remembered the comfort of a guiding hand; he remembered that he was nothing.

Nothing.

What had he wanted before? He wanted women. He was no different from the enemy, only that he had failed. He needed hands on him, hands on his neck, in his mouth, or else he was going to do something stupid. He was hot. There was blood rushing to his groin, a sweet inadvertent thrill of the senses. There were hands on him, ropes on his wrists. Red and rubbed and raw.

The sky over the field was bleeding. He was a leaf in the wind, and he danced through the holes in the clouds. Or was he? He was not a lamb. He was not a leaf. He was nothing.

He was nothing.

He was—

He was here, wasn’t he?

Snap!

Aubrey woke. Free at last. He leapt off the table and whirled about, brandishing his fists. His body was alive and stirring with power. He was prepared, more prepared than he had ever been in his life, to strike down the foul vampire once and for all.

Instead, he found Moira nursing a cup of tea by the fire. She’d brought out a second chair, and a cup for him rested in the seat.

“Sit down.”

“Y-yes, Ma’am.” Aubrey stumbled over to the chair.

“How do ye feel?”

“I…” He could not possibly describe it!

“How do ye feel about Ianthe Zannouli?”

“I… I hate her! That— that bitch! Why, I want nothing more than to—to—” He made a gesture, like crushing a melon in his hands. “She’s a lying whore, an agent of Satan! I’m going to kill her!”

“And why do you want to kill er?”

“Because she is the—” Suddenly, Aubrey grasped his throat. “I still cannot…”

Moira nodded. “I thought so– this one is tricky. I’ve freed ya somewhat, but not all the way.”

“Ah! But–”

“We’ll need to find some other way to warn the others.”

“Oh, Lord…” Aubrey picked up his cup of tea and sank into the chair. He furrowed his brow.

“And there’s a catch,” said Moira, grimly. “If she ensnares you again, I canny free you. Your bondage will increase in power tenfold!”

“So, I must succeed…” Aubrey stared up at the ceiling. “I’m Pearl’s last hope.”

“Pearl is gone, Mr. Darvell.”

“Don’t be a fool! She is my beloved, she is not—”

“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, boy, written in a rat’s entrails.”

Aubrey leapt to his feet. “I’ve got it! Moira–”

“Watch the cup!”

“Moira–” He gently placed the teacup on the corner of the table. “Do you have a pen? Or a piece of chalk?”

“Wha–?”

He pulled down the hatch and scurried down the stairs– his energy was like that of an excited little boy. Moira trailed after him, into the parlor.

There, he found a piece of paper in his waistcoat and a piece of graphite on the windowsill. He crouched over it, and Moira brought a candle to hold above him. In the dark, hand shivering from fear and excitement, he wrote:

 Ianthe Zannouli is the Vampyre!

“I’ve got it!” He shouted in triumph. “That cocky slut said– said–” He stuttered again, flapping the paper in front of Moira’s nose. “Well, she did not say that I could not write of what I know.”

Moira looked strangely cross-eyed, her glass eye pointing inward and the other focusing on the paper. She was not, however, happy.

“You’re sayin…” said she, “that you spent all these months tryin ta warn your mentor– a matter o life an death! – of the Vampyre, and ya never–?”

“I had other things to concern myself with.”

“Like wha?”

“Like my darling Pearl, who always needs looking after— and Mr. Spice and his manuscript, which I assisted with. Why, every day I was forced to…” He paused. “Write.”

“You're fuckin stupid!”

“It doesn’t matter now!” Aubrey pushed past her, tucking away the paper. “What matters now is that I put an end to this reign of tyranny!”

“Aye.”

Aubrey turned. Moira stood, flat-footed, before the latched window. Outside, behind the smoldering reflection of the candle’s flame, dawn was sweeping violet across the horizon.

Said she, “You're a damn fool. And our only hope.” She sighed. “There’s one more thing you should know.”

“Moira… I owe you my life, and the lives of all who I hold dear.” Aubrey laid a hand over his heart. “Tell me. Please.”

Moira raised her chin. Her eyes blazing, her tongue like fire, she spoke the final truth that just might save them all: the secret to killing the Vampyre.

Ephraim Spice did not send anyone. He told no authorities; no holy man could assist, no neighbor, no relation or good Samaritan, nobody. He stayed all night in a sort of stupor, slumped in his study, alone. At first he was furious, and in his anger, broke several teacups. But the hours ticked on, and he grew morose. He realized that it was possible– if not probable– that Pearl might not come back at all.

In his armchair, he was surrounded by his life’s work. No matter where his eye lay, he saw more than most could even comprehend. There were idols plucked from Indian altars, rich Chinese brocades, golden Celtic crosses. There were the scattered pages of his manuscript, the text which may very well save the world. He sat there, ill with worry and regret, swaying under the weight, and realized that such things meant nothing in an empty home.

He tried to write. Earnest, powerful words fell from his pen. 

Fool, fools, all of them! it said. There is nothing one can do to stop the Vampyre wholly. Once it has sunk its claws in, one’s only hope is to prevent the worst of the Damage. 

It is imperative to the Continuation of Life on Earth that proper prevention is widely instituted. Hundreds, if not thousands, of lost souls hang in the balance. Great cruelty of life, that so many can be so blind! How, in this world the merciful Lord has gifted us, can so many fail to see that which is just before them?

Only when morning light drifted through his curtains, gauzy and warm as a kitten’s belly, did he rise to the land of the living. There came a light step, a patter of feet down the hall. The floorboards groaned in the same manner they had beneath the soles of his dear, dead wife. The light danced as if it yearned to confess a secret.

And there in the doorway stood a woman grown. Her pale dress swept the floor like that of an ancient priestess; her delicate hands rolled down the door frame; her ringlets danced in the golden light. Her fair features, her smile— his daughter.

“Oh, Pearl!” Ephraim’s face strained with sudden tears. “Oh, Pearl, my daughter. You’ve come back to me.”

He opened his arms.

His daughter came ever nearer and fell into his embrace. She cradled her head beneath his chin and rested her arms on his knees. It was as if she were but a girl again, watching with rapturous eyes as he told her stories of distant lands long ago.

“Of course I have,” said she. “Did you think a little quarrel would truly drive me away?”

“I am sorry,” said he, “for raising my voice at you.” 

“Mm.” She closed her eyes.

“Oh, child…” Ephraim swallowed. “Understand, it was only out of concern that I acted. Understand that, as I have grown older and wiser, I cannot help but distrust. There are so many ghastly people in the world, and I could not bear to see them hurt you.”

“Hm.”

He placed his hand on her head. “I love you. Though it pains me, of course you may have friends, and choose those friends of your own accord. ”

Pearl held him a touch tighter.

Said Ephraim, “I will respect your wishes, my dear child. Never go away from me again– my old heart could not bear it. You are so delicate, you cannot survive on your own. Does my concern not matter in the face of your independence? Surely we can compromise. Surely…”

“Oh, Father, we are long past such things.” Pearl opened her eyes and smiled at him– so sweetly, it was like being kissed by an angel. “You are right, as always.”

Ephraim’s tears began anew, and he held her for a while more.