“A leech?”
“Oui. You know, the Egyptians of long ago, they think the soul it can be stored in a pot of clay. These pots, you examine them now, you analyse the clay, which have many metals in it, and you will see they are like the Leyden jar.”
“I’m unfamiliar with that, monsieur. What is it?”
“Une batterie primitive. It hold and preserve static electricity.”
“You’re suggesting the soul has an electrical component?”
“Soul, volonté, what is the difference? I think a strong volonté can draw the energy from a weaker, like to drain une batterie, and it is from this that the legend of the vampire begin.” Levi drew on his pipe and deliberated for half a minute before continuing. “Perdurabo, only his volonté pass through history and across reality into our world, but without a body to sustain him, he will die, so he possess this man, John Judge.” Levi turned his pipe and waved its stem at Burton. “Ah! But already there is a volonté in the man, non? His own! And it, Perdurabo cannot drain completely, for it is attach to the body and keep it alive, which Perdurabo, who is not attach, cannot do. He dominate it and keep it quiet, but always struggle, struggle, struggle—John Judge, he want to be free of this parasite. It is very hard for Perdurabo, so he require much energy. He must feed on others like—how did you say? Yes—a leech.”
Burton gave a low whistle. “He extracted willpower from the Royal Charter’s crew and passengers?”
“Oui. And this way he keep his own volonté strong. Now, Sir Richard, we are at the heart of the vampire legend, for when his victims have not sufficient volonté remaining, they are like the dead. Dead but not dead. Le terme le plus approprié est ‘strigoi morti’—the un-dead.”
“As with a Haitian zombie?” Burton asked.
“Ah, you know of that! Mais non. The zombie, it is but an animated corpse and must be controlled by a bokor—a sorcerer. The un-dead, they have just enough volonté remaining to know one thing—” The Frenchman paused, drew another lungful of smoke, then, with clouds of it billowing from his mouth, said, “That they, too, must feed.”
“Vampire begets vampire,” Burton murmured.
“Non, pas exactement. Not exactly! Remember, the vampire original—the nosferatu—it is very powerful; by its nature, it feed on and is sustained by others. Its victims, the strigoi morti, they have not this type of volonté, so they must rise at night—”
Burton interrupted. “Why at night?”
“Parce que, it is at night when all is concealed by darkness. The un-dead prefer this; they have an aversion to any stimulation of the senses, for this make them remember what they are not—alive! So they hunt at night, to do to others what was done to them, for they want to live again, you see? And in day, they are like in hibernation, hiding from l’horreur of self-awareness. Also, their prey is more easy to take at night, when sleeping.”
Burton lit a cheroot, his brows furrowed as he grappled with the concept. “Can the strigoi morti be restored to proper life if they feed sufficiently on the willpower of others?”
The occultist shook his head. “Il est terrible. Blind instinct drive them to feed, but they cannot be made strong by volonté, as can the nosferatu. For the strigoi morti, there is only the agony of insatiable hunger, nothing else. It is the worst torture. Mon Dieu! The worst torture!”
They smoked in silence for five minutes, both lost in thought.
Burton murmured, “What of fangs and bloodsucking?”
“Embellissement, monsieur! People in the old times, they say the blood is the life, non? They think when the whole village is weak, it must be that their blood is taken in the night, so they dig up the dead and see the teeth.” Levi pulled his lips back and ran a forefinger over his gums. “This flesh here, it quickly grow small in death and make the teeth look very long, so the people think these are the fangs that suck the blood.”
Burton stood, went to a desk, and retrieved the logbook of the Royal Charter. He flipped through a few pages, stopped, read, and said, “So the sailor Colin McPhiel was drained of his volonté by Perdurabo, who’d taken possession of John Judge. He became a strigoi morti, and rose at night to feed on others of the crew and passengers. With Perdurabo doing the same, the un-dead would have proliferated, but for the fact that Captain Taylor ordered the corpses thrown overboard each morning.”
“Exactemente.”
“The nosferatu, is it also restricted to the night?”
“In its own body, non. But when it occupy another, the volonté of the host fight hard during the day. This exhaust the parasite. Only at night can he dominate.”
“And the garlic and mirror, monsieur?”
“Strong odour, it activate le sens de l’odorat—the sense of smell—which of all the senses is the one most connecting with memory. With strigoi morti, perhaps it wake the remaining volonté a little; perhaps make a bit of awareness; and then open the eye and hold the mirror so it see itself—a reaction of horreur and despair, and we know this corpse is dead but not dead.”
Burton reached up and massaged his temples. “How quickly are the un-dead made?”
“By a nosferatu, if he need much sustenance, many in a single night. But a strigoi morti, it must feed again and again on the same individual to make that one un-dead, too.”
“But, nevertheless, they proliferate?”
“Like the black plague.”
“That, at least, might help us to locate Perdurabo. I shall alert Scotland Yard to look out for any reports that might indicate such activity. By Allah, how am I to convince Chief Commissioner Mayne that a vampire is on the loose?”
“The police, they must see it with their own eyes, I think.”
For the rest of the weekend, the two men studied.
Monday, the last day of October, was the first cold day of the autumn; so much so that Burton had the fire lit and he and Levi sat around it, with books piled beside their chairs.
A letter arrived from Isabel. She reported that preparations were almost complete at New Wardour Castle and the first houseguests, her friends Mr. and Mrs. Beeton, had arrived.
Sadhvi has been of splendid assistance, and her stories of the hardships you all endured in Africa have certainly improved your standing in my parents’ eyes. Perhaps they are beginning to understand, as I do, that your thorns function to preserve and protect the rarest of blooms: a courageous, honourable, and sensitive man; the only man I could possibly marry. Oh, Dick, if you could see how supportive Papa, in particular, has become; how much he has thrown himself into decorating the ballroom, organising the rooms to accommodate the guests, hiring the extra staff, planning the menus, and so forth. It has been quite simply wonderful. I must say, however, that of all of us, nobody has worked harder than Tom, our remarkable groundsman. As you know, Capability Brown landscaped the estate back in the late 1700s, and none is more “capable” of maintaining the gardens than good old Tom, but my goodness, what a task he faced after last week’s atrocious storm! Trees were down, there were branches, twigs, and leaves strewn all over, fences had fallen, and even bits and pieces from the nearby villages had blown onto our lawns and flowerbeds. In his typically quiet and efficient manner, our man enlisted a force of locals and had the place shipshape and Bristol fashion in the blink of an eye. He’s an absolute gem! But what a strange thing; as I sit here by the window and look out at his marvellous handiwork, I see ravens gathering by the hundreds in the trees and, in the distance, they blacken the tops of the old castle’s walls. You know what a superstitious thing I am, Dick. What with that horrible omen uttered by Hagar Burton and now these wicked-looking fiends “tapping, tapping at my chamber door,” I am overcome with uneasiness and a sense of foreboding. Bless my soul; your bride-to-be is a quivering bag of nerves! Perhaps it is normal. Dear Isabella says she felt the same way before she wed Sam Beeton. I should consider her happiness a far better indicator of our future than silly auguries and squawking birds!