Chapter VII
He had a fancy for some Oriental legends of pre-existence, and in his conversation and poetry took up the part of a fallen or exiled being, expelled from heaven, or sentenced to a new avatar on earth for some crime, existing under a curse, predoomed to a fate really fixed by himself in his own mind, but which he seemed determined to fulfill. At times, this dramatic imagination resembled a delusion; he would play at being mad, and gradually get more and more serious, as if he believed himself to be destined to wreck his own life and that of everyone near him.
LORD BYRON’S GRANDSON, Astarte
What did you tell him, then?’ Rebecca asked.
Lord Byron looked up at her. He had been staring into the darkness, a half-smile playing on the edge of his lips. He frowned. ‘Tell?’ he asked.
‘Hobhouse - did you tell him the truth?’
‘The truth?’ Lord Byron laughed. ‘What was the truth?’
‘About your transformation.’
‘Into a vampire?’ Lord Byron laughed again, and shook his head. ‘Hobhouse had caught the sun, you know, while he’d been away from me. He’d always been red-faced, but now he was puce. Then, that evening, he had indigestion as well. Spent the whole night glowing in the dark, groaning and farting. And Hobby was never the most credulous of people, not at the best of times. So no, Miss Carville, I did not tell him - the man was practically afloat on his own wind. Not the moment to make a dramatic revelation.’
‘But even so, he must have guessed.’
‘Yes, that something had happened, of course. But what exactly? - I wasn’t sure of that myself. Hobhouse was so damned alive, you see.’ Lord Byron smiled, and for a brief second, something like fondness seemed to warm his eyes. ‘No - a couple of hours with Hobby, grumbling and scratching and complaining about his wind, and it was hard to believe in vampires at all. Even harder, of course, to believe that I could have become one myself. I began to doubt everything that had happened to me - wonder if I hadn’t dreamed the whole thing - except that all the time, quite indisputably, there was the numbness in my heart, the numbness of an aching sense of loss. I was alone, and Haidée was not with me; I was alone, and Haidée was murdered, drowned beneath the waters of Lake Trihonida. And something - something - had happened to me - something strange - for my senses, as I’ve told you, no longer seemed my own, but like some spirit’s, some angel’s, so that I could feel things which mortals have never felt. Just the breath of air on my face, the merest whisper, and sensations would flood me, passions of extraordinary beauty and strength. Or I would stroke the skin of my arm - hear the scraping of a chair - smell the wax of a candle, stare for hours at its flame - tiny things, but they ravished me - yes - gave me a pleasure that was . . .’ - he paused, then shook his head - ‘indescribable. ’ He smiled again, and stroked his forearm, reliving the memories. ‘Everything seemed changed,’ he whispered softly, ‘changed utterly. And so I wondered what had happened - to the world - or to me - to give birth to such a state of mystery.’
Rebecca stared into his face, so pale, and beautiful, and melancholy. ‘But you knew,’ she said.
Lord Byron slowly shook his head.
‘But - you must have known.’ Instinctively, Rebecca reached for her neck, to stroke the puncture marks. ‘How could you not have done?’ She realised that Lord Byron was staring at her scars, his eyes as brilliant and cold as jewels, and she lowered her arm. ‘The blood lust,’ she asked quietly. ‘I don’t understand. What had happened to it?’
‘I didn’t feel it,’ said Lord Byron after a pause.
‘But you’d felt it before - on the mountains - you said you did.’
Lord Byron nodded imperceptibly. ‘But it was that,’ he said softly, ‘which I came to believe had been a fantasy. I would smell the life all around me, in humans, creatures, even the flowers - yes, and be intoxicated - but still have no hunger. Once, riding by the Gulf of Lepanto, I saw an eaglet flying above us, and I felt the rush of desire then - the mountains on one side of us, the still waters on the other, and this beautiful living thing between. I felt the aching lust for blood - not for its own sake, though, but because I too wanted to soar and be free like the bird - because I wanted it to be a part of me, I suppose. I had a gun with me. I shot the eaglet, and watched it drop. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it, its eye was so bright; but it pined, and died in a few days; and I felt a terrible sickness at what I had done. It was the first creature I had killed since the death of the Pasha; and since then, I have never attempted - and hope I never will attempt - the killing of another animal or bird.’
‘No.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I just don’t understand. ’ She remembered the body of the tramp, laid out by Waterloo Bridge; she remembered the soft flow of her own blood. ‘An eagle? Why feel remorse for an eagle?’
‘I explained,’ said Lord Byron, a coldness in his voice now. ‘I wanted it to be a part of me - it was so alive - and in killing it, I destroyed what attracted me.’
‘But isn’t that what you have done throughout your whole existence?’
The vampire bowed his head. ‘Perhaps,’ he said softly. His face was shadowed; Rebecca couldn’t tell how angry he might be. But when he looked up again, his face was impassive; and then, as he talked, it seemed gradually to lighten and grow almost warm. ‘You must believe me,’ Lord Byron said. ‘I felt no thirst. Not in those first months. There were only sensations - desires, whole universes of them, hinting at still further delights, far beyond my dreams. At night, when the moon was full and the air ghostly with the scent of mountain flowers, eternity would seem all about me. I would feel a calm that was also a fierce joy in my veins, just from the delight of having consciousness, of knowing myself to exist. My nerves were sweet to the touch - the faintest experience would brush them, and send shivers of pleasure out through my flesh. Sensuality was in everything - the kiss of a breeze, the scent of a flower, the breath of life in the air and all around.’
‘And Haidée?’ Rebecca tried not to sound caustic, but failed. ‘Amidst all this unalloyed happiness - what about her?’
Lord Byron rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘Misery,’ he said at last, ‘can sometimes be a fine and pleasant thing. A dark drug. The joy least likely to betray its faithful addicts.’ He leaned forward. ‘I still mourned Haidée, yes, of course - but rather in the way that I would take a lengthy bath. It disturbed me, this inability to feel true pain - I sensed, I think, that it was a mark of how much my humanity was altered, and yet at the same time, for all that I tried to weep, I could not regret it. That was to change, of course . . .’ He paused. ‘Yes - that was to change.’ He studied Rebecca, almost, she imagined, as though pitying her. She stirred uneasily, and as she did so, found herself caught again in the ice of his stare. Lord Byron reached out a hand, as though to touch her cheek, or stroke her long hair - then he too froze. ‘The time was to come,’ he whispered, ‘when I would grieve cruelly enough for Haidée. Oh yes - the time was to come. But not then. The joy of my new state could not be fought. It was a madness. It drowned all else.’ He smiled. ‘And so even my misery enchanted me.’
He nodded. ‘It was in such a mood that I became a poet. I had started a poem that was something quite new - not like the satires I had written in London, but wild and restless, full of romantic despair. It was called Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. In England, it was to make me famous, and a byword for melancholy, but in Greece, where I wrote it, the gloom it expressed gave me nothing but delight. We were riding at this time past the mountain of Parnassus, on our way to Delphi. I wanted to visit the oracle of Apollo, the ancient god of poetry - I offered him a prayer, and the next day, we saw a flight of eagles, soaring high above us past the snow-clad peaks. I took it as an omen - the god had blessed me. I stared at the mountains, and thought of Haidée, and my wretchedness grew ever more splendid and poetical. I had never felt half so elevated before. Hobhouse, of course, being Hobhouse, claimed that the eagles had been vultures, but I damned him cheerfully, and rode on, gloomy in my poetry, exultant within myself.
‘It was late in the year now - but we continued to travel - and on Christmas Day, from a rugged mountain track, we had our first glimpse of Athens. It was a glorious sight - the Attic plain, the Aegean, and the town itself, surmounted by the Acropolis, all bursting upon our eyes at once. But it wasn’t the archaeology which delighted me - Athens had charms far more vital and fresh than dead rock. We took rooms with a widow, a Mrs Tarsia Macri - she had three daughters - they were all lovely, but the youngest, Teresa, was a pouting little houri fresh from paradise. She served us our first meal, and she smiled and blushed as though she had been trained to it. That evening, we settled with the widow for a stay of several months.
‘Later, in the dead of night, I fell on Teresa like a thunderbolt. Had I forgotten Haidée? - no - but she was dead - and my desire for Teresa seemed to have risen suddenly like a fountain from a desert, so powerfully that it almost frightened me. Love, constant love?’ - Lord Byron laughed, and shook his head - ‘no - not even for Haidée - though I swear to you, I did all I could. I walked in the yard, to cool my blood, but the soft little whore was waiting for me, and promising myself still that I wouldn’t consent - I consented, of course. There was no help for it - none at all - she was far too delicious and alive. The veins beneath her skin were so delicate, and her bare neck and breasts so inviting to kiss - and the pleasure - when I fucked her - was like the rush of a drug. We crushed winter flowers beneath us, while above gleamed the impassive sky, and the spectral marble of the Parthenon. Teresa moaned with exultation, but there was terror as well in her eyes, and the emotions, I could sense, were inextricable. I explored inside her, felt the deep warmth of her life. My sperm smelled of sandalwood - she, of wild roses. I took her again and again, until morning rose behind the Acropolis.
‘Nothing else in Athens was to compare with that night. Yet our stay in the city passed delightfully enough, and winter began to melt into spring. Hobhouse raged around the countryside after antiquities; I rode my mule, haunted by the mythic beauty of the land, but making no notes, asking no learned questions. Instead, I gazed at the stars, and ruminated, and felt my dreams take wing until they seemed to fill the sky. But profundity could be tiring - and then I would return to more voluptuous pursuits. My Maid of Athens was insatiable - fortunately, for she needed to be - my own need for pleasure raging in my blood like a disease. At last, though, I grew tired of Teresa - I looked around, and took her sisters instead, apart at first, then en famille - and still my desire prickled endlessly. Something was missing - some pleasure that I hadn’t contemplated yet. I took to wandering the streets of Athens by night, as though searching for it, the fulfilment, the to kalon, as the Greeks would say. I haunted the squalid alleyways of the modern town, and the pale relics of the glory that was lost, shattered marble, altars to forgotten gods. Nothing. And then I would return to the Macri sisters’ bed, and wake them, and make them perform again. But still that hunger - for something - but for what?
‘One evening, early in March, I was to find out. Friends of ours, both Greeks and fellow travellers, had come to dine with us. The evening started off silent, then talky, then disputatious, then drunk - and for the final hour, all seemed happiness. My three pretty concubines danced attendance on me, and the wine cast a rosy veil across my thoughts. Then, gradually, through its warmth, the hunger began to scream at me again. All of a sudden, I was shaking, at the nakedness of Teresa’s throat, and the glimpse of the shadow that marked out her breasts. She must have seen my expression, for she turned away coyly, and flicked back her hair in a way that made my stomach clench. Then she laughed, and her lips were so moist and red, that I rose unthinkingly, and reached out to take her arm. But Teresa laughed again, and danced back, and then she slipped, and the bottle of wine she had been carrying was shattered on the floor. There was a silence. Everyone turned to look at her; Teresa slowly raised up her hands and we all saw that they were wet with blood. Again, in my stomach, I felt the clenching of desire. I walked across to her and held her in my arms, as though to comfort her. She held up her hands to me, and I took them - and suddenly, with a naked thrill of certainty, I knew what my hunger had been for. My mouth was watering; my eyes were blind. But I lifted Teresa’s hands to my lips, and I kissed them gently, and then I licked. Blood! The taste . . .’ Lord Byron swallowed. ‘What can I say? - the taste was that of the food of paradise. Blood. I licked again, and felt lightness and energy in a wash of radiant gold, staining my soul with its purity. Greedily, I began to drink from the deepest wound. With a sudden scream, though, Teresa pulled her hand away, and at once, there was silence across the room again. Teresa looked for her mother and ran to her, but everyone else was staring at me. I wiped at my mouth. My hand, when I pulled it away, was smeared with blood. I brushed it on my shirt - then I touched my lips again. They were still damp. I licked them, and stared around the room. No one met my eyes. No one said a word.
‘Then Hobhouse - my dearest, best friend Hobhouse - rose and took me by the arm. “Damn it, Byron,” he said, in a loud, ringing voice, “damn it, but you’re drunk.” He led me from the room; as I walked out, I heard voices behind me starting to murmur again. I stood on the steps that led up to my room. The realisation of what I had done struck me afresh. My legs seemed like flowing water. The taste of the blood came back to me - and I staggered, and fell into Hobhouse’s arms. He helped me upstairs, and left me in my room. I slept at once - the first time for over a month - but it was not an easy sleep. I dreamed that I had never been a living thing at all, but instead a creature manufactured by the science of the Pasha. I saw myself laid out on a dissecting table, exposed to lightning at the summit of his tower. I had no skin. I was wholly naked to the Pasha’s touch. He was creating me. I longed to kill him, but I knew that whatever I did, I would always be his thing. Always, always . . .
‘When I woke at last, it was to find myself lying in a putrid stench of matter. The sheets were caked with my own filth, just as the rocks had been by Lake Trihonida. I leaped to my feet, and stared down at the stuff which had once formed my living self. How much residue was there left in me? And when it had all gone - what would I be then? - alive or dead? - or neither, perhaps? It had been the blood, I knew, the blood I had drunk, it was that which had made my body sweat like this. I began to shake. What was happening to me? I didn’t care to pause and think. Instead, I washed and dressed, then ordered Fletcher to burn the sheets. I woke Hobhouse. “Get up,” I told him. “We’re leaving at once.” Hobhouse, to my surprise, didn’t grumble even - just nodded, and staggered out of bed. We left Athens like thieves. Above us, as we reached Piraeus, the dawn was bleeding across the sky.
‘We took a ship across the Aegean Sea. The captain was an Englishman, whom we had met a few days before, and he saw to it that we both had our private berths. I kept to mine, for the thirst was starting to plague me again, and I was afraid of what it might lead me to do. In the evening, Hobhouse joined me; we got ragingly drunk; for a second night, he saw me to bed. But I didn’t sleep; instead, I lay on my couch, and remembered the forbidden, golden taste of blood. The craving grew worse; at last, just before dawn, I reached for a razor, and sliced my own arm. Only a thin line of blood rose up from the wound, but I drank it greedily, and the taste was as rich and delicious as before. Then I slept, and dreamed, and imagined I was a creature of the Pasha again, a mass of skinless limbs beneath his anatomist’s knife. In the morning, my bedclothes were stiff with the familiar filth.
‘We reached Smyrna on the afternoon of our second day at sea. My stay there was torture. I felt a restlessness and disquietude that I had never known before, and a terror at the thought of what might be happening to me. The proofs of that, both within my body and inside my mind, seemed terrible and full - and yet still I couldn’t bear to believe the truth. And if I could not confess it to myself, then to whom else could I turn for help and advice? Hobhouse, as ever, was a devoted friend; and yet he was so solid, and generous, and down-to-earth - I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want sympathy or reasonableness. I had darker dreams. I wanted - no - I tried not to think about it - and yet all the time, of course, I could think of nothing else.
‘So I continued silent and desperate. At last, my thirst grew so terrible, I thought I was turning mad. Hobhouse, seeing how black my mood had grown, and ever the sportsman, advised me to take some exercise’ - Lord Byron smiled - ‘as though boxing or a game of cricket would have helped me then.’ He smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Sadly, neither of those activities being ready to hand, it was agreed instead that we should make a tour. Two days’ ride away lay the ruins of Ephesus - and so we set out for them, accompanied only by a single janizary. The road was wild and desolate, surrounded by bleak marshes, from which the croaking of frogs was deafening. At last, we had left even the frogs behind; and only the odd Turkish tombstone hinted that life had ever existed in that wasteland. Otherwise, not a broken column or roofless mosque disturbed the bleakness of the wilderness - nothing at all; we were wholly alone.
‘I could feel the thirst starting to consume me now. I looked desperately across the dreary plain, searching for any glimpse of life, but there was only a cemetery ahead of us, a shattered, empty city of the dead. My breath was starting to rattle now - my lungs felt as though they were shrivelling away. I raised my hand to wipe my brow, but as I did so, I checked myself, and stared in horror at what my fingers had become - gnarled twists of blackened bone. I stared down at my arm - again, it was black and dry; felt my face - it was withered to the touch; tried to swallow - but my tongue seemed thick with fiery dust. I scratched a sound out from my throat, and Hobhouse looked round. “My God,” he whispered. I had never seen such a look of revulsion before. “Byron. My God, Byron.” He rode back to me. I was so dry. I could smell the blood in Hobhouse’s veins. It would be cool and fresh, and as moist as dew. I needed it. I had to have it. I reached out for his throat. I clutched at air. I tumbled from my horse.
‘With our janizary’s help, Hobhouse bore me to the cemetery. He laid me beneath the shade of a cypress tree, and I leaned back against one of the tombs. I stripped my shirt away. My whole body was black, I could see now, and my flesh was burning on the bone, so that I seemed a virtual skeleton. Hobhouse kneeled by my side. “Drink,” I managed to hiss, “must drink.” I raised a finger to point at our janizary, then stared greedily back at Hobhouse, trying to make him understand.
‘He nodded. “Yes, of course, old chap.” He turned to the janizary, who had been watching me, a look of terror in his eyes. “Suleiman, verban su!” Hobhouse yelled - “Fetch water!” The janizary bowed, and scampered away. I groaned with frustrated need. “Come on, old fellow,” said Hobhouse, wiping my brow, “you’ll have your water soon.” I stared at him with fury, and longing for his blood. I scraped feebly with my fingers against the tomb, but my nails flaked away, and I was afraid that my scratchings might expose the bone. I lay helplessly where I was.
‘Time went by - five minutes, ten, then quarter of an hour. I could feel my stomach collapsing in, and imagined my intestines shrivelled like dry grapes. Hobhouse was looking more and more desperate as he watched me burn away. “Damn the fellow!” he screamed suddenly. “Damn him, what the devil is he at?” He rose to his feet. “Suleiman!” he yelled. “Suleiman, that water, we need it now!” He looked back down at me. “I’m going to find him,” he said. “Byron.” He tried to smile. “Byron, just - just - don’t . . .” I thought he was about to cry, but he turned his face and started to run, hurrying through the weeds and shattered tombs, until I could see him no more. I lay as he had left me. I felt my consciousness evaporate before the black thirst in my veins.
‘I passed out - but not beyond the reach of my agony - and I woke again, and prayed for death. Then suddenly - in the desert of that pain - I felt a startling coolness. It was a hand - laid against my brow. I tried to mouth Hobhouse’s name.
‘“No. Not Hobhouse,” said a man’s voice I didn’t recognise. “Rest your tongue. We shall have time enough to talk.” I struggled to look up. I felt a second hand tilt my head. I was staring into a face of striking handsomeness. Long golden hair framed features that seemed both pale as death, and yet also light with the pleasures of life - it was an aristocrat’s face, amused, faintly cruel, touched by animal grace. The strange man smiled at me, then kissed me on the lips. “A maggoty greeting,” he said. “Kissing shall be better, I think, when you are prettier again.” He laughed with delight, but his eyes, I could see now, gleamed like sunlight on a lake of ice. They reminded me of the Pasha’s - and then, at once, I understood: I was lying in the arms of a creature like myself.
‘The vampire rose to his feet. “You have an itching inclination, I think, to drink some blood,” he said. “Obey it. For blood is the finest cordial of all. It begets wit, good humour and merriness. It restores health to our bodies when they are shrivelled like old paps. It banishes all those heavy thoughts which make existence seem unkind.” He laughed. “Sweeter than wine, sweeter than a maiden’s ambrosia - it is your only draught. So come.” He took my hand. “Come and drink.”
‘I tried, but I couldn’t rise. “Trust yourself,” hissed the vampire, a hint of scorn in his voice. He took my other hand. “You are dangerous as the plague, and evil as the Devil. Do you really think you are still the slave of your flesh? Damme sir, I tell you, you are not. Have faith in your powers - and follow me.”
‘I tried to lift myself - and suddenly, I could. To my surprise, I found that I had risen to my feet without ever seeming to move. I took a step forwards - and it was as though I were nothing but a whisper of air. I took another step, and found that I had passed across the tombs, and was standing on the road. I looked back towards the cypress tree where I had been lying. A body was still slumped there, twisted and black. It was my own.
‘“Am I dead?” I asked, and my voice, in my ears, was like the wailing of a storm.
‘My guide laughed. “Dead? No - undead! You will never be dead, so long as there is life!” He laughed again, with a libertine’s glee, and pointed down the road. “I passed him on the way,” he said. “Have him. He is yours.”
‘I moved, like a black gale, with a speed I could scarcely recognise as being speed at all. The janizary’s blood smelled wonderfully fresh. I could see him now ahead of me, galloping back to Smyrna, and his horse’s flanks were white with foam. The janizary glanced round - and I stood still where I was, a silhouette against the sky, savouring his blank-faced look of shock. His horse whinnied and stumbled. “No!” the janizary screamed, as he was thrown to the ground. “No, no, Allah, please, no!” I felt a sudden detachment from my own thirst. I watched, intrigued, as the janizary tried to recapture his horse. He didn’t have a chance - surely he understood that? The janizary was sobbing now - and suddenly the thirst was back inside me again. I moved - I leaped - the janizary screamed - my teeth bit against the skin of his neck. I felt the incisors extend from my gums - the skin gave - blood, in a soft silken spurt, filled my mouth. I felt a shuddering delirium, as the blood was pumped by the dying man’s heart, and rain flooded out across my parched skin and throat.
‘I drained my victim white. When I had finished, his gore in my blood felt heavy like a drug.
‘“Pleasant to meet a fellow drinker on the road.” I looked round. The vampire had been watching me. Amusement glittered in his eyes. “Are your thirsty veins restored?” he asked. I nodded slowly. “Excellent,” the vampire smiled. “Believe me, sir, ’tis purple nectar. There is nothing more salutiferous than your bumper of fresh blood.” I stood up, to kiss either side of the handsome, moonstone face, then pressed my lips against the vampire’s own. He narrowed his eyes, tasting the janizary’s blood in my mouth, before breaking free to bow with an extravagant sweep. “I am Lovelace,” he said, bowing a second time. “Like yourself, I believe, an Englishman, and a peer of the realm. That is, sir, if I am correct in addressing you as the notorious Lord Byron?”
‘I raised an eyebrow. “Notorious?”
‘Why, yes sir, notorious! Did you not, at some dinner party or rout, feed in public on your Athenian whore? Do not be surprised, milord, if such scrapes provoke wonder and discussion amongst the common herd.”
‘I shrugged. “I had no intention of causing a scandal. She cut herself. I was surprised by my own desire when I saw her blood.”
‘Lovelace stared at me, intrigued. “How long, milord, have you been of the fellowship?”
‘“Fellowship?”
‘“The aristocracy, sir, the aristocracy of the blood, by which you - and I - are made doubly a peer.” He reached up to stroke my cheek. His nails were sharp, like crystal to the touch. “You are a virgin, are you not?” he asked suddenly. He gestured at the slaughtered janizary. “That was your first kill?”
‘I bowed my head coldly. “In a manner, I suppose.”
‘“A pox on’t, sir, I could tell you were a virgin from your blackened state back there.”
‘“How do you mean?”
‘“You must be young in blood indeed, to have permitted yourself to decline in such a way.”
‘I stared at him. “If I don’t drink, you mean” - I gestured back towards the cemetery - “that will happen to me again?”
‘Lovelace bowed shortly. “I do, sir. And I am mightily surprised, that you have endured for so long since Athens without blood. That is why I wished to know how long have you been of the fellowship?”
‘I tried to remember. Haidée in the cave - the Pasha’s teeth against my chest. “Five months,” I said at last.
‘Lovelace stared at me, a look of stunned surprise on his handsome face; then he narrowed his eyes. “Why, sir, if this be true, then you are like to prove the choicest drinker I have met with yet.”
‘“I don’t understand your surprise,” I said.
‘Lovelace laughed, and pressed my hand. “I once survived dry for upwards of a month. Two months has been heard of - but more than that, never. And yet you, sir, the freshest, greenest recruit to our ranks - five months, sir - five, you say.” He laughed again, and kissed me on the mouth. “Oh, milord - what entertainments we shall have, what routs and kills! How glad I am that I followed you!” He kissed me again. “Byron - let us be wicked together.”
‘I bowed my head. “There is clearly much that I need to be taught.”
‘“Yes, there is,” said Lovelace, with a simple nod of his head. “Believe me, sir - I have sampled a century and a half of libertinage. I speak as a courtier of the second King Charles. We were not a canting, mewling, puritan age - no sir, we understood what pleasure could be.” He whispered in my ear. “Whores, milord - fine wines - refreshing draughts of blood. You will find eternity a welcome thing.” He kissed me, then paused to wipe blood from my mouth. He glanced down at the janizary’s corpse. “Was it good?” he asked, tapping the dried-out body with his foot. I nodded. “There will be better,” said Lovelace shortly. He took my hand. “For now, though, milord, we must both return to our corporeal forms.”
‘“Corporeal?”
‘Lovelace nodded. “Your friend will believe you dead.”
‘I touched myself. “It seems very strange,” I said. “The pleasures I have drunk in seem bodily enough. But how do I feel them, if I am nothing now but spirit?”
‘Lovelace shrugged contemptuously. “I leave such quibbles to wranglers and diviners.”
‘“But it is not a quibble. If I have no body, then what is it that I am feeling now, here, inside my veins? Is the pleasure real? It seems unbearable to think of it as just a fantasy.”
‘Lovelace reached for my hand. He drew it inside his shirt and over his chest, so that I could feel the muscles beneath the skin. “We are in a dream,” he whispered, “one we share between us. We rule it and form it. You must understand, sir, that we have this power to make the stuff of our dreams a reality.”
‘I stared into his eyes. I could feel his nipple hardening at my touch. I glanced down at the janizary. “And him?” I asked. “Did I only dream that I fed on his blood?”
‘Lovelace smiled, a faint smile of amusement and cruelty. “Our dreams are a canopy, milord, into which we draw our prey. Your Turk is dead - and you, sir, are whole once again.” He took my hand. “Come. We must return you to your grieving friend.”
‘We went, and once we had reached the cemetery, I left Lovelace on the road, and walked back through the tombs. Ahead of me, past the turbaned gravestones, I made out Hobhouse. He was sobbing inconsolably over my blackened corpse. It was a pleasant sight. What can be finer than to know you will be missed by your friends when you are gone? And then I felt sorrow to think that I had caused my dear Hobhouse pain, and I returned, like a shiver of light, into my flesh. I opened my eyes - and felt blood start to flow through my withered veins.’ Lord Byron closed his eyes. His smile had the ecstasy of memory. ‘As though they had been freed from the grip of a vice, my limbs returned to life. Champagne after soda water; sunlight after mist; women after a monastery - all seem to offer a hint of resurrection. But they do not. There is only one true resurrection - and that is blood after a drought of the flesh.’
‘So you draw blood by dreaming?’ Rebecca asked, interrupting him. ‘That is how it happens?’
Lord Byron stared at her. ‘You should remember,’ he said softly. He stared at Rebecca’s neck. ‘You have been caught in the web of my dreams.’
Rebecca shivered, and not just from fear. ‘But you drank from Teresa,’ she said.
Lord Byron bowed his head.
‘So you don’t have to dream to drink blood?’
‘No.’ Lord Byron smiled. ‘Of course not. There are many ways of tasting it. Many arts.’
Rebecca stared at him, fascinated and appalled. ‘Arts? What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Lovelace, that first evening, tempted me by hinting at them.’
Rebecca frowned. ‘Why tempt?’
‘Because I didn’t want to hear them. Not at first.’
‘But you said - the pleasure you’d had - you’ve been describing it.’
‘Yes.’ Lord Byron’s lip curled faintly. ‘But I was satiated on the blood I had drunk, and that evening, in the village outside Ephesus, I suffered the self-disgust that follows all great pleasures. I had killed a man - I had drained him - I was only surprised that I wasn’t more revolted with myself. But there was another reason, too, for ignoring Lovelace’s blandishments. It was the property of blood, I discovered, that it heightened all other experiences. The food and drink that night were delicious in a way I had forgotten they could be. I had no time for whisperings about secret arts or fresh victims.’
‘Lovelace wanted to kill again?’
‘Oh, yes. Very much so.’ Lord Byron paused. ‘He wanted Hobhouse.’
‘Hobhouse? ’
Lord Byron nodded, then smiled. ‘Lovelace was an admirer of breeding, you see. “I must have him,” he told me that night. “For months now, Byron, I have had nothing but peasants and vile-smelling Greeks. Faugh, sir, I am a true-bred Briton, I cannot survive on such trash. And Hobhouse, you say, is a Cambridge man? Why then, sir, he must be mine.”
‘I shook my head, but Lovelace only pressed me the more eagerly. “He must die,” he hissed. “Apart from all else, he saw you expire and resurrect.”
‘I shrugged. “Medicine isn’t Hobby’s strongest suit. He thinks it was heatstroke.”
‘Lovelace shook his head. “ ’Tis no matter.” He stroked my arm, and his eyes were pinpricks of eager fire. I shuddered, but Lovelace mistook my disgust for thirst. “Red blood is fine,” he whispered in my ear, “but blue blood, sir - why, there is no drink on this earth which compares with that.”
‘I told him to go hang. Lovelace laughed. “You seem not to understand what you have become, milord.”
‘I stared at him again. “Not a thing like you, I hope.”
‘Lovelace gripped my arm. “Do not deceive yourself, milord,” he hissed.
‘I stared at him coldly. “I wouldn’t presume to try,” I said at last.
‘“But I think you do.” Lovelace grinned evilly. “You are a creature wicked as sin. To deny that is vile hypocrisy.” He let go of my arm, and started to walk down the moon-white path to Ephesus. “Your body has a thirst, milord,” he shouted out, as I stood watching him go. He paused, and turned round to face me. “Ask yourself, Byron - can a thing such as you afford to have friends?” He smiled, then turned again, and disappeared. I stood where I was, trying to banish the echoes of his question from my mind. I shook my head - then returned to the room where Hobhouse was asleep.
‘I kept watch over him through the night. My body stayed pure and unstained throughout. This was the first time that I had drunk blood and not sweated out filth the next night. I wondered what this portended. Had Lovelace been right? Were the changes to me now indeed irrevocable? I clung to Hobhouse’s company as though he were a charm. The next day we visited the ruins of Ephesus. Hobhouse poked at inscriptions in his usual way; I sat on the mound which had once been the temple of Diana, and listened to the mournful wailing of the jackals. It was a melancholy sound, as melancholy as my thoughts. I wondered where Lovelace had gone. I couldn’t sense him among the ruins, but my instincts and powers were dulled by the sun, and I knew that he couldn’t be far away. He would surely be back.
‘That night, he was. I had sensed his approach as he drew near to us, and I watched unseen as he crossed to Hobhouse’s bed. He bent low over my friend’s naked throat, and I saw the gleam as he bared his razor teeth. I took his wrist; he struggled silently, but couldn’t escape; I pulled him out from the room to the stairs. There, Lovelace broke free. “You shitten salt-arse,” he snarled, “let me have him.” I blocked his way. Lovelace tried to push me aside, but I took his throat and as I tightened my grip around it, I felt strength flood me in a rush of joy. Lovelace started to choke; he struggled again, and I enjoyed his fear; at last, I let him drop, and Lovelace swallowed painfully, then looked up at me again.
‘“God’s wounds, sir, but you have a mighty strength,” he said. “ ’Tis pity you are such a mope-eye about your friend.”
‘I inclined my head politely. Lovelace continued to stare at me, rubbing at his neck, and then he rose to his feet. “Tell me, Byron,” he said, frowning, “who created you?”
‘“Created?” I shook my head. “I was not created, I was transformed.”
‘Lovelace smiled faintly. “You were created, sir,” he said.
‘“Why do you ask?”
‘Lovelace stroked at his neck again, and breathed in deeply. “I saw you at Ephesus today,” he whispered. “I have been a vampire for a century and a half. I am deep in blood and experience. Yet I could not have stood the glare of that sun, not as you did, sitting in that open place. So I wonder, sir. I am sore perplexed. Who gave you his blood, that you can have such power?”
‘I paused - then spoke the name of Vakhel Pasha.
‘I caught a flicker of amusement in Lovelace’s eye. “I have heard of Vakhel Pasha,” he said slowly. “A mage, is he not? An alchemist?”
‘I nodded.
‘“Where is he now?” Lovelace asked.
‘“ Why?”
‘Lovelace smiled. “Because he seems to have taught you so little, milord.”
‘I said nothing, just turned and walked back up the stairs. But Lovelace ran after me and held my arm. “Did you kill him?” he whispered. I shook my arm free. “Did you kill him?” Lovelace bared his teeth in a grin, and held my arm again. “Did you kill him, sir, so that his blood rose up, and fell on you in a shower, like the fountains that play in St James’s Park?”
‘I turned round. My spine seemed made of ice. “How did you know?” I asked.
‘Lovelace laughed. His eyes sparkled with delight. “There were rumours, milord. I heard them by Lake Trihonida. I was filled at once with a desire to establish their truth. And so here I am.” He drew his face close to mine. “You are damned indeed, Byron.”
‘I stared into his pitiless eyes. I felt hatred and anger flow through me like lava. “Get away,” I hissed.
‘“And would you banish your own urgings as well, milord ?”
‘I took him by the throat again and squeezed; then I flung him back. But Lovelace still smiled evilly. “You may have the strength of a mighty spirit, milord, but doubt not, you are fallen, as Lucifer, son of the morning, is fallen - as we are all fallen. Creep back to your ditch-water friend. Enjoy him - he is mortal - he will die.”
‘“Destroy him, Lovelace—”
‘“ Yes?”
‘“Destroy him - and I will destroy you.”
‘Lovelace bowed mockingly. “You do not know the secret, Byron, do you?”
‘“Secret?”
‘“It hasn’t been revealed to you.” Lovelace didn’t ask; merely stated a fact. I took a step back towards him; Lovelace melted towards the door.
‘“ What secret?” I asked again.
‘“You are damned - and you will damn all who are close to you.”
‘“ Why?”
‘Lovelace smiled mockingly. “Why, that, sir, is the secret.”
‘“ Wait.”
‘Lovelace smiled again. “You are journeying to Constantinople, I believe?”
‘“Wait!” I shouted.
‘Lovelace bowed - and was gone. I ran to the door, but there was no sign of him. On the night breeze, though, I thought I heard his laugh, and his whisper seemed to echo in my thoughts. “You are damned - and you will damn all who are close to you.” From far off, a cock crew. I shook my head. I turned and walked - alone - back up to the room where Hobhouse lay asleep.’