Chapter XIII

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain;
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire;
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remember’d tone of a mute lyre,
Shall on their soften’d spirits sink, and move
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.

LORD BYRON, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

His body was washed up ten days later. The exposed flesh had been eaten away; what was left had been bleached by the sea; the corpse was unrecognisable. It might have been the carcass of a sheep for all that I could tell. I thought of Haidée. I hoped that her body had never been found, a rotten mess in a hessian sack - I hoped that her bones still lay undisturbed beneath the water. Shelley’s corpse, stripped of its clothes, was a nauseous and degrading sight. We built a pyre on the beach, and burned it there. As the flames began to spread, I found the scent of dripping flesh unbearable. It was sweet and rotten, and stank of my failure.

‘I wandered down to the sea. I stripped to my shirt. As I did so, I glanced round and saw, standing on the hill, the figure of Polidori. Our eyes met; his puffy lips thinned and spread into a sneer. A billow of smoke from the pyre passed between us. I turned again. I wandered into the sea. I swam until the flames were extinct. I did not feel purified. I returned to the pyre. There was nothing but ash. I scooped the dust up and let it run through my fingers. An attendant showed me a charred lump of flesh. It was Shelley’s heart, he explained - it hadn’t burned - perhaps I would like it? I shook my head. It was too late now. Too late to own Shelley’s heart . . .’

Lord Byron paused. Rebecca waited, a frown on her face. ‘And Polidori?’ she asked

Lord Byron stared at her.

‘You hadn’t won Shelley’s heart. You had lost. And yet - when you saw Polidori - you didn’t confront him - you let him go. And he’s still alive now. Why? Why didn’t you destroy him, as you had said you would?’

Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘Do not underestimate the joys of hatred. It is a pleasure fit for eternity.’

‘No.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I don’t understand. ’

‘Men love in haste - but to detest - leisure is needed - and I had - I have’ - he hissed the word - ‘leisure.’

Rebecca’s frown deepened. ‘How can I tell if you’re being serious?’ she asked with sudden anger and fear. She hugged herself. ‘You could have destroyed him?’

Lord Byron stared at her coldly. ‘I believe so,’ he said at last.

Rebecca felt her heart slow. She was afraid of Lord Byron - but not as afraid as she had been the night before, when Dr Polidori had surprised her by the Thames, with madness in his face, and poison on his breath. ‘Only believe?’ she asked.

Lord Byron’s eyes were still cold as he replied. ‘Of course. How can we be certain of anything? Polidori is infused with a part of myself. That is the Gift - that is what it means. Yes,’ he said with sudden vehemence, ‘I could destroy him - yes - of course I could. But you ask why I don’t, and why I didn’t in Italy, after Shelley drowned. It is the same reason. Polidori was given my blood. He was my creature. He, who had bequeathed me my loneliness, had become by that act almost precious to me. The more I hated him, the more I understood that I had no one else. Perhaps Polidori had intended such a paradox. I don’t know. Even Jehovah, when he sent the flood, could not bear the total destruction of his world. How could I have outraged Shelley’s ghost by behaving worse than the Christian Divinity?’

Lord Byron smiled grimly. ‘Because it was Shelley’s ghost, you see, and Haidée’s, which haunted me. Not literally - not even any longer as visions in my dreams - but as a blankness - a desolation. My days were listless - my nights restless - and yet I could not stir myself, nor do anything but kill, and brood, and scribble poetry. I remembered my youth, when my heart overflowed with affection and emotions; and yet now - at thirty-six - still no very terrible age - I could rake up all the dying embers in that same heart of mine, and stir scarcely even a temporary flame. I had squandered my summer before May was yet ended. Haidée was dead - Shelley was dead - my days of love were dead.

‘And yet from torpor, those same memories aroused me at last. All that long, ditch-water year, the revolt in Greece had been gathering apace. The cause of which Haidée had dreamed - the revolution which Shelley had longed to lead - the lovers of freedom, amongst which, once, I had counted myself - now looked to me. I was famous - I was rich - would I not offer the Greeks my support? I laughed at this request. The Greeks didn’t realise what they were asking for - I was a deathly thing - my kiss polluted all it touched. And yet, to my surprise, I found I was moved - a thing I had come to believe quite impossible. Greece - romantic and beautiful land; freedom - the cause of all those I had loved. And so I agreed. I would not just support the Greeks with my wealth - I would fight amongst them. I would leave Italy. I would tread, once again, upon the sacred soil of Greece.

‘For this, I knew, might be my last chance - to redeem my existence, perhaps, and exorcise the ghosts of those I had betrayed. And yet, for myself, I had no illusions. I could not escape what I was - the freedom I fought for would not be my own - and though I fought for liberty, I would still be more bloodstained than the cruellest of the Turks. I felt a terrible agitation when I glimpsed the distant coast of Greece again. I remembered my first sight of it, all those years before. What an eternity of experience I had undergone since then! What an eternity of change . . . These were the same scenes - the very soil - where I had loved Haidée - and last been mortal - and free of blood. Sad - so sad - to look upon the mountains of Greece, and think of all that was dead and gone. And yet there was joy too, intertwined with my misery, so that it was impossible to distinguish between the two. I did not try. I was here to direct and lead a war. Why else, after all, had I come to Greece, if not to occupy my stagnant mind? I redoubled my efforts. I sought to think of nothing but the fight against the Turks.

‘And yet when it was proposed that I should sail to Missolonghi, the shadows of horror and regret returned, blacker than ever. As my ship crossed the lagoon towards the harbour, the guns of the Greek fleet boomed out to welcome me, and crowds were gathered on the walls to cheer. But I barely noticed them. Above me, distant against the blue sky, was Mount Arakynthos; beyond it, I knew, was Lake Trihonida. And now, waiting for me - Missolonghi - where I had ridden to after killing the Pasha - and rejoined Hobhouse - not a mortal any longer - but - a vampire. I remembered the vividness of my sensations that day, fifteen years before, watching the colours of the swamps and the sky. The colours were just as rich now, but when I looked at them, I saw death in their beauty - disease in the greens and yellows of the swamps, rain and fever in the purples of the clouds. And Missolonghi itself, I could see now, was a wretched and squalid place - built on mud, surrounded by lagoons, fetid and crowded and pestilential. It seemed a doomed place for heroism.

‘And so it proved to be. Hemmed in by the enemy as we were, the Greeks seemed more interested in fighting one another than the Turks. Money flowed like water through my hands, but to little purpose that I could see, beyond funding the squabbles of which the Greeks were so fond. I sought to reconcile the various leaders, and discipline the troops - I had the money, after all, and the power of compulsion in my eye - but any order I imposed was fragile and brief. And all the time, the rains fell and fell, so that even if we had been ready to attack, we could have done nothing, so dismal and hopeless the conditions had become. Mud was everywhere - swamp mists hung over the town - the lagoon waters began to rise - the roads were soon nothing but an oozing morass. And still it rained. I might just as well have been back to London.

‘As a cause, then, liberty began to lose its gloss. For a long time, since arriving in Greece, I had reduced my number of killings to a minimum - now I began to feed wantonly again. Each day, through the cold winter rains, I would leave the town. I would ride the oozing path along the edge of the lagoon. I would kill, and drink, and leave my victim’s corpse amongst the filth and reeds. The rain would wash the corpse into the mud of the lagoon. Before, I had tried not to prey on the Greeks - the same people I had come to save - but now I did it unthinkingly. If I hadn’t killed them, after all, the Turks would have done.

‘Then one afternoon, as I was riding by the lake, I saw a figure muffled in rags by the path. The person, whoever it was, seemed to be waiting for me. I was thirsty - I had not yet killed - I spurred my horse on. Suddenly though, the horse rose up and whinnied with fear - it was only with an effort I could bring him under control.

‘The figure in rags had stepped onto the path. “Lord Byron.” The voice was a woman’s - cracked, hoarse, but with a hint of something strange, so that I shivered, caught between horror and delight. “Lord Byron,” she called again. I saw the glint of bright eyes beneath her hood. She pointed a bony hand at me. It was bunched and gnarled. “A death for Greece!” The words sliced through me.

‘“Who are you?” I shouted, above the drumming of the rain. I saw the woman smile - suddenly, my heart seemed to stop - her lips had reminded me - though I knew not how - of Haidée. “Stop!” I shouted. I rode towards her - but the woman was gone. The lagoon bank was empty. There was no sound but the pelting of the rain upon the lake.

‘That night I was seized by a convulsion. I felt a terrible horror come on me - I foamed at the mouth - I gnashed my teeth - all my senses seemed to fall away. After several minutes, I recovered, but I was afraid, for I had felt, during my fit, a state of self-revulsion such as I had never known before. It had been heralded, I knew, by the woman who had met me on the path by the lagoon. Memories of Haidée - torments of guilt - longings for what was impossible - all had risen like a sudden storm. I recovered. Weeks passed - I continued to marshal my troops - we even launched a brief attack across the lake. But all the time, I remained tense - filled with a strange foreboding - waiting to glimpse the strange woman again. I knew she would come. Her demand echoed in my brain: “A death for Greece!”’ Lord Byron paused. He stared into the dark, and Rebecca heard - or did she imagine it? - the sound of something from behind her again. Lord Byron too seemed to have heard the noise. He repeated his words, as though to silence it. His words hung like the pronouncement of a doom. ‘“A death for Greece.”’

He looked away from the darkness, back into Rebecca’s eyes. ‘And she did indeed come again - two months later. I was riding with companions, reconnoitring the ground. Some miles from the town, we were overtaken by heavy rain, slanting down in sheets of grey. I saw her, squatting in a pool of mud. Slowly, as before, she pointed at me. I shuddered. “Do you see her?” I asked. My companions looked - but the road was empty. We returned to Missolonghi. By now, we were soaked. I had a violent perspiration, and a fever in my bones. That evening, I lay on my sofa, restless and melancholy. Images of my past life seemed to float before my eyes. Dimly, I heard soldiers squabbling in the street outside, shouting violently as they always did. I had no time for them. I had no time for anything but memories and regrets.

‘The next morning, I tried to shake off my misery. I rode again. It was April now - the weather, for a change, was fine - I joked with my companions, as we galloped down the road. But then, in an olive grove, she appeared to me again, a phantom huddle of dirty rags. “Ahasver?” I screamed. “Ahasver, is it you?” Then I swallowed. My mouth was dry. The syllables hurt my throat to pronounce. “Haidée?” I stared. Whatever she had been, she had vanished now. My companions led me back to the town. I was raving, calling after her. The fit of horror and self-disgust returned. I was taken to my bed. “A death for Greece. A death for Greece.” The words seemed to beat in my ears with my blood. Death - yes - but I could not die. I was immortal - or at least - for as long as I fed on living blood. I imagined I saw Haidée. She stood by my bed. Her lips were parted - her eyes bright - on her face, intermingled, were love and disgust. “Haidée?” I asked. I reached for her. “Are you truly not dead?” I tried to touch her - she melted away - I was alone, after all. I took a vow. I would drink no more. I would defy all agonies, defy all thirst. A death for Greece? Yes. My death would achieve far more than my life. And for myself? Release - extinction - nothingness. If I could have it indeed, I would welcome it.

‘I kept to my bed. The days passed. I was feverish already - now my pain grew infinitely worse. I fought it, though - even when my blood began to burn - when it seemed that my limbs were shrivelling up - when I felt my brain, like a drying sponge, glue to my skull. The doctors gathered - flies on rotting meat. Watching them buzz and fuss, I longed for their blood, to drain them all. I fought the temptation - I banished them instead - my strength and health continued to decline. Slowly, the doctors began to buzz back. Soon, I lacked the energy to keep them away. I had been worried that they might save me - but hearing them now, talking amongst themselves, I knew I had been wrong - with something like relief, I encouraged them. The pain now was terrible - blackness was starting to burn up my skin - my mind was drifting. Still, though, I would not die. It seemed not even the doctors could finish me off. And then they asked to bleed me again.

‘I had refused a first request. What blood I had in me was already almost gone - to be drained would have made the agony worse - I hadn’t been able to face the pain. Now though, I was desperate. Weakly, I agreed. I felt the leeches being applied to my brow. Each one burned like a drop of fire. I screamed. Surely such agony couldn’t be borne?

‘The doctor, seeing my pain, held my hand. “Do not worry, My Lord,” he whispered in my ear. “We will soon have you well.”

‘I laughed. I imagined the doctor had Haidée’s face. In my delirium, I screamed at her. I must have fainted. When I came to, I was staring at the doctor’s face again. He was cutting my wrist. A tiny trickle of blood flowed out. I wanted Haidée. But she was dead. I screamed out her name. The world began to swirl away. I called out other names - Hobhouse, Caro, Bell, Shelley. “I will die,” I shouted, as darkness lapped out from the leeches on my brow. I imagined my friends were gathered round my bed. “I will be as you are,” I told them, “mortal again. I shall be mortal. I shall die.” I began to sob. Still the darkness spread. It dimmed my pain. It dimmed the world. Is this death? I wondered - and then, like a final candle in a universe of black, the thought was snuffed out. There was nothing else. Darkness was all.

‘I woke to moonlight. It was bright against my face. I moved my arm. I felt no pain. I stroked my brow. There were craters where the leeches had been. I lowered my hand, and the moonlight shone upon the wounds again. When I touched them a second time, the craters seemed less deep - a third time, and the wounds were entirely healed. I stretched my limbs. I rose to my feet. Against the stars, I could see a mountain peak.

‘“There is no physic, My Lord, like Our Lady the moon.”

‘I stared round. Lovelace smiled at me. “Are you not glad, Byron, I have saved you from those cozening Missolonghi quacks?”

‘I stared at him hard. “No, damn you,” I said at last, “I had been trusting in their skills to finish me.”

‘Lovelace laughed. “Not the poxiest mountebank could kill you off.”

‘I nodded slowly. “So I find.”

‘“You are in need of a good restorative.” He gestured. I saw two horses. Behind them, a man had been bound to a tree. He struggled as I looked at him. “A dainty dish,” said Lovelace. “I thought - bold Greek warrior that you are - you might appreciate the blood of a Mussulman.” He grinned at me. Slowly, I crossed to the tree. The Turk began to writhe and twist. He moaned beneath his gag. I killed him with a single slash across the throat. The blood - after so long - yes, I had to admit - it tasted good. I drained my victim empty. Then, with a faint smile, I thanked Lovelace for his thoughtfulness.

‘He stared into my eyes. “Do you think I would have left you in agony?” He paused. “I am vicious and cruel, a most accomplished villain, but I love you well enough.”

‘I smiled. I believed him. I kissed him on his lips. Then I glanced around. “How did you get me here?” I asked.

Lovelace jigged a purse of coins in his hand. He grinned. “There is no one like your Greek for the taking of a bribe.”

‘“And where have you brought me?”

‘Lovelace bowed his head. He made no reply.

‘I looked around. We were in a hollow of rocks and trees. I stared up at the mountain peak again. That shape - the silhouette against the stars . . .

‘“Where are we?” I asked again.

‘Slowly, Lovelace looked up at me. The moonlight burned on the pallor of his face. “Why, Byron,” he asked, “do you truly not remember it?”

‘For a moment, I stood frozen - then I moved through the trees. Ahead of me, I saw a glint of silver. I left the trees behind. Below me, a lake - moon-stained - its waters breathed on by the faintest of breezes. Above - the mountain - that familiar silhouette. Behind . . . I turned - and there it was. Slowly, I walked to the entrance of the cave. Lovelace had come and was standing by my side. “Why?” I whispered. Fury and despair must have blazed up in my eyes, for Lovelace staggered back, as though appalled, covering his face. I pulled away his arm, forcing him to meet my stare. “Why, Lovelace?” My grip tightened. “Why?”

‘“Leave him.”

‘The voice that spoke from the cave was faint - almost inaudible. But I recognised it - recognised it at once - and I realised, hearing it now, that its echoes had never truly faded from my mind. No - they had always been with me. I loosened my grip. Lovelace shrank back. “It is him,” I whispered. I didn’t ask - merely stated a fact - but Lovelace nodded. I reached for his belt - I slipped out his pistol - I cocked it.

‘“Hear him,” Lovelace said. “Hear what he has to say to you.”

‘I made no answer. I stared about me, at the moon and the mountain, the lake and the stars. How well I remembered them. My grip tightened round the pistol butt. I turned and walked into the darkness of the cave.

‘“Vakhel Pasha.” My voice echoed. “They told me you had been buried in your grave.”

‘“And so I was, milord. So I was.” The voice, still faint, came from the back of the cave. I looked into the shadows. A figure, prostrate, was huddled there. I walked towards it. “Do not look at me,” the Pasha said. “Do not come any nearer.”

‘I laughed contemptuously. “It was you who had me brought here. It is too late now to give out such commands.” I stood above the Pasha. He was pressed against the rocks. Slowly, he turned to look up at me.

‘Despite myself, I breathed in. The bones beneath his cheeks had collapsed - his skin was yellow - pain was stamped on his every look - but it was not his face which horrified me. No - it was his body - which was naked - do you understand? - naked - stripped of clothing, yes - but of skin too - in places, even of muscle and nerve. The wound to his heart was still open and unhealed. Blood, like water from a tiny spring, bubbled faintly with each tortured breath he took. His flesh was blue with rottenness. I watched as he brushed at a gash to his leg. A worm, white and bloated, dropped from the wound. The Pasha crushed it between his fingers. He wiped his hand across a rock.

‘“You see, milord, what a thing of beauty you have made of me.”

‘I am sorry,” I said at last. “I had thought to kill you.”

‘The Pasha laughed, then choked, as blood in a froth swelled up between his lips. He spat it, so that it dribbled down his chin. “You wanted revenge,” the Pasha said at last. “Well - see what you have achieved - a horror much worse than any death.”

‘There was a long silence. “Again,” I said eventually, “I am sorry. I did not intend it.”

‘“Such pain.” The Pasha stared at me. “Such pain, stabbing into my heart, on the point of your sword. Such pain, milord.”

‘“You seemed dead. When I left you there, in the ravine, you seemed dead.”

‘“And so I nearly was, milord.” He paused. “But I was greater than you knew.”

‘I frowned. “How?”

‘“The greatest of the vampires - such as I, milord” - he paused - “and you - cannot be killed so easily.”

‘My knuckles whitened as I gripped the pistol. “But there is a way, then?”

‘The Pasha struggled to smile. His effort collapsed in a grimace of pain. When he spoke again, it was not to answer me. “I have lain years, milord, in the dirt of the grave. My flesh melting into sludge - my fingers ringed with worms - every foul thing that the soil can breed leaving their tracks of slime across my face. And yet - I could not move - such was the weight of earth above my limbs, between me and the healing light of the moon, and all those living creatures which might have restored me with their blood. Oh yes, milord, the wound you gave me was grievous indeed. A long time it took me, to recover my strength, to pull myself at last from the embrace of the grave. And even now - you see” - he gestured at himself - “how far a way I have still to go.” He clasped his heart. Blood, in soft bubbles, seeped across his hand. “The wound you struck still flows, milord.”

‘I stayed frozen. The pistol seemed melted into my hand. “You are recovering, then?” I asked.

‘The Pasha inclined his head a fraction.

‘“And you will be whole again, eventually?”

‘“Eventually.” The Pasha smiled. “Unless - the way that I mentioned . . .” His voice trailed away. Still I didn’t move. The Pasha reached up to take my hand. I let him hold it. Slowly, I bent, and kneeled beside his head. He turned to stare into my eyes. “Still beautiful,” he whispered, “after all these years.” His lips twisted.

“Older, though. What would you not give to have your former loveliness restored?”

‘“Less than to have back my mortality.”

‘The Pasha smiled. I would have struck him then, had it not been for the ache of sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry,” he whispered, “but that can never be.”

‘“Why?” I asked, with a sudden sense of rage. “Why me? Why did you choose me for your - for your . . .”

‘“Love.”

‘“For your curse.”

‘Again he smiled. Again, I saw the sadness in his eyes. “Because, milord . . .” The Pasha reached up to stroke my cheek. The effort made his whole body shake. His finger, against my flesh, felt bloody and raw. “Because, milord” - he swallowed, and unexpectedly his face seemed lit up with desire and hope - “because I saw the greatness in you.” He choked violently, but not even the pain could dim his sudden desperate passion. “When we first met, even then, I recognised what you might become. My faith has not been misplaced - already you are a creature more powerful than me - the greatest, surely, of all our breed. My wait is over. I have an heir - to take up the burden, and continue the search. And where I have failed, milord - you will succeed .”

‘His arm dropped. His whole body shook again, as though with the pain of the effort of his speech. I stared at him in astonishment. “Search?” I asked. “What search?”

‘“You spoke of a curse. Yes. You are right. We are cursed. Our need - our thirst - it is that which makes us an abomination - loathed, and feared. And yet, milord, I believe” - he swallowed - “we have a certain greatness . . . If only . . . If only . . .” He choked again, so that blood was spattered across his beard.

‘I stared at the crimson flecks, and nodded. “If only,” I whispered, completing his words, “we did not have our thirst.” I remembered Shelley. I closed my eyes. “Without thirst, what then could we not achieve?”

‘I felt the Pasha squeeze my hand. “Lovelace tells me that Ahasver came to you.”

‘“Yes.” I looked at him with sudden wonderment. “You know of him?”

‘“He has had many names. The Wandering Jew - the man who mocked Christ on His way to Calvary, and was sentenced for his crime to eternal restlessness. But Ahasver was already ancient when Jesus was slain. Ancient, and eternal, as all his kind are.”

‘“His kind?”

‘“Immortals, milord. Not like us - not vampires . . . True immortals.”

‘“And what,” I asked, “is true immortality?”

‘The Pasha’s eyes burned very bright. “Freedom, milord, from the need to drink blood.”

‘“It exists?”

‘The Pasha smiled faintly. “We must believe so.”

‘“So you have never met these immortals, then?”

‘“Not as you have done.”

‘I frowned. “Then how can you know they exist at all?”

‘“There are proofs - faint - often doubtful - but proofs of something, nevertheless. Twelve hundred years, milord, I have sought them. And we must believe. We must. For what other choice or hope do we have?”

‘I remembered Ahasver, how he had come to me, and the strangeness of all he had revealed. And I remembered more. I shook my head, and rose to my feet. “He told me there was no hope for us,” I said, “no escape.”

‘“He lied.”

‘“How can you know?”

‘“Because he must have done.” The Pasha struggled to raise himself. “Do you not see?” he asked with feverish passion. “There is a way, somehow, to win immortality. True immortality. Would I have searched all these years, if I hadn’t had hope? It exists, milord. Your pilgrimage may have a chance of an end.”

‘“If mine, why not yours?”

‘The Pasha smiled, the fever burning again in his eyes. “Mine?” he asked. “Mine too has the chance of an end.” He reached for my arm. He pulled me down beside him again. “I am tired,” he whispered. “I have borne the hopes of our kind for too long.” His grip tightened. “Take up the burden, milord. I have waited, for centuries, for such a one as you. Do as I ask now - release me. Give me peace.”

‘Gingerly, I stroked his brow. “So it is true,” I whispered, “I can give you death after all?”

‘“Yes, milord. I have been powerful, a king amongst the Kings of the Dead. Extinction for vampires such as you and I is hard - for a long time, I believed, impossible. But it is not just life I have been searching for these long centuries. Death too has its secrets. In libraries, in the ruins of ancient towns, in secret temples and forgotten graves, I have hunted.”

‘I stared at him. “Tell me, then,” I asked slowly, “what did you find?”

‘The Pasha smiled. “A way.”

‘“How?”

‘“It must be you, milord. You and no one else.”

‘“Me?”

‘“It can only be a vampire I have made. Only my creation.” The Pasha beckoned to me. I bent my ear close to his lips. “To end it,” he whispered, “to free me . . .”

 

‘No!’ Rebecca almost screamed the word.

Slowly, Lord Byron narrowed his eyes.

‘Don’t say it. Please. I beg you.’

A cruel smile wrinkled Lord Byron’s lips. ‘Why do you not want to know?’ he asked.

‘Because . . .’ Rebecca gestured with her arms as her voice trailed away. ‘Surely you can see?’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘Knowledge can be a dangerous thing.’

‘Yes, it can.’ Lord Byron nodded mockingly. ‘Certainly it can. And yet also - do you not think? - it is a base abandonment, to resign our right of thought? Not to dare - not to search - but to stagnate, and rot?’

Rebecca swallowed. Dark fears and hopes were mingled in her mind. Her throat seemed dry with doubt. ‘You did it then?’ she said eventually. ‘You did as he asked?’

For a long while, Lord Byron made no reply. ‘I promised him I would,’ he said at last. ‘The Pasha thanked me - simply, but with courtesy. Then he smiled. “In return,” he said, “I have been keeping something in wait for you.” He told me of his legacy. Papers - manuscripts - the distillation of a millennium’s work. They were waiting for me, sealed, at Aheron.’

‘Aheron? The Pasha’s castle?’

Lord Byron nodded.

‘Why there? Why hadn’t he brought them to give to you?’

‘I asked him the very same question, of course.’

‘And?’

‘He wouldn’t answer.’

‘Why not?’

Lord Byron paused. He glanced again into the shadows that lay beyond her chair. ‘He asked me,’ he said at last, ‘if I remembered the underground shrine to the dead. I did, of course. “There,” he told me, “you will find my parting gift to you there. The rest of the castle has been burned to the ground. The shrine, though, can never be destroyed. Go, milord. Find what I have left for you.”

‘Again I asked, why he hadn’t brought his papers with him. Again the Pasha smiled, and shook his head. He took my hand. “Promise,” he whispered. I nodded my head. He smiled again, then turned his face against the wall of the cave. For a long while, he lay in silence. At last he turned back and looked up at me.

‘“I am ready,” he whispered.

‘“It is not too late,” I said. “You can be healed. You can carry on your search with me by your side.”

‘But the Pasha shook his head. “I have decided,” he said. He reached for my hand. He placed it over his naked heart. “I am ready,” he whispered in my ear again.’

Lord Byron paused. He smiled at Rebecca. ‘I killed him,’ he said. He leaned forwards. ‘Do you want to know how?’ Rebecca didn’t answer. ‘The secret. The deathly, deadly secret.’ Lord Byron laughed. It seemed to Rebecca, sitting frozen in her chair, that he had not been talking to her at all. ‘I sliced open his skull. I ripped apart his chest. And then . . .’ He paused. Rebecca listened. She was sure there had been a noise - the same scrabbling she had heard before - coming from the darkness by her chair. She tried to rise, but Lord Byron’s eyes were on her, and her limbs seemed made of lead. She stayed where she was. The room around her seemed silent again. There was no sound now but the thumping of her blood.

‘I ate his heart and brains. Simple, really.’ Again, Lord Byron was staring past her chair. ‘The Pasha died without a moan. The mess I had made of his head was revolting, but on his face, beneath the gore, was a look of rest. I called Lovelace. I met him by the entrance to the cave. He stared at me, astonished. Then he smiled, and reached out to stroke my face. “Oh, Byron,” he said, “I am glad. You are really quite the beau once again.”

‘I frowned. “What do you mean?” I said.

‘“That you are beautiful. Beautiful and young as you used to be.”

‘I touched my cheeks. “No.” But they felt smooth and unlined. “No,” I said again. “I can’t be.”

‘Lovelace grinned. “Oh, but you are. As lovely as when I met you first. As lovely as when you were created a vampire.”

‘“But . . .” I smiled, meeting Lovelace’s grin, and then I laughed in sudden ecstasy. “I don’t understand . . . How?” I laughed again. “How?” I choked with disbelief. And then suddenly I did understand. I looked back into the cave, at the Pasha’s mangled corpse.

‘Lovelace too, for the first time, saw what I had done. He walked up to the body. He stared down at it, appalled. “Dead?” he asked. “Truly dead at last?” I nodded. Lovelace shivered. “How?”

‘I reached for him and stroked his hair. “Do not ask,” I said. I kissed him lingeringly. “You do not want to know.”

‘Lovelace nodded. He bent by the corpse, and stared at it in wonder. “And now?” he said at last, looking up at me. “Do we burn his corpse, or bury it?”

‘“Neither.”

‘“Byron, he was wise and mighty, you cannot leave him here.”

‘“I don’t intend to.”

‘“Then what?”

‘I smiled. “You will take the corpse to Missolonghi. The Greeks must have their martyr. And I . . .” I walked to the cave mouth. The stars had disappeared, blotted out beneath black cloud. I smelled the air. A storm was coming. I turned back to Lovelace. “I must have my freedom. Lord Byron is dead. Dead in Missolonghi. Let the news be proclaimed across Greece and all the world.”

‘“You wish” - Lovelace gestured with his arm - “that - thing - to be taken for you?”

‘I nodded.

‘“How?”

‘I tapped on Lovelace’s bag of coins. “There is no one like your Greek for the taking of a bribe.”

‘Lovelace smiled slowly. He bowed his head. “Very well,” he said. “If that is what you wish.”

‘“It is.” I reached across and kissed him, then walked from the cave and untethered a horse. Lovelace watched me. “What will you do?” he asked.

‘I laughed, as I climbed onto the horse’s back. “I have a search to make,” I said.

‘Lovelace frowned. “Search?”

‘“A last request, if you like.” I spurred my horse forwards. “Goodbye, Lovelace. I will wait to hear the cannons over Greece proclaim my death.” Lovelace swept off his hat in an extravagant bow. I waved to him - I wheeled my horse round - I galloped down the hill. The cave was soon lost behind rocks and groves of trees.

‘The storm broke above me on the Yanina road. I paused for shelter in a tavern. The Greeks there muttered they had never heard such thunder. “A great man has passed away,” they all agreed.

‘“Who might it be?” I asked.

‘One of them, a bandit I guessed from the pistols in his belt, crossed himself. “Pray to God, it is not the Lordos Byronos,” he said. His companions nodded in agreement. I smiled. Back in Missolonghi, I knew, the soldiers would be wailing and sobbing in the streets.

‘I waited for the storm to pass. I rode all night, and into the day. It was twilight when I reached the road to Aheron. By the bridge, I found a peasant. He screamed as I gathered him onto my horse. “The vardoulacha! The vardoulacha is back!” I cut his throat - I drank - I tossed his body into the river far below. By now, the moon was gleaming brightly in the sky. I spurred my horse on through the gorges and ravines.

‘The archway to the Lord of Death stood as before. I rode under it, past the cliff, and then, rounding the promontory, towards the village and the Pasha’s castle on the crag. Before, it had loomed against the sky - but now, when I looked, it seemed melted away. I rode through the village. There was nothing of it left, save for odd mounds of rubble and weed, and when I passed the castle walls, they too seemed swallowed up into the rock, so that no one would have known they had ever been there. But it was when I reached the summit, where the castle had stood, that I sat frozen with astonishment. Strange twisted stones gleamed against the azure gloom, as though moulded like sand by streaks of rain. Slowly, I dismounted. Of the mighty edifice that had once been there, nothing recognisable remained. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grew matted together over the stones - nothing else survived. The whole place was blasted and overthrown. I wondered if it was I who had destroyed it, I who had brought the curse upon the place, when I had stabbed my sword through the heart of its lord.

‘I searched for the great hall. There was no trace of the pillars or the stairways, nothing but the strange twists of rock everywhere, and I felt a mounting sense of hopelessness. Then, just as I was nearing despair, I recognised a fragment of stone behind some weeds. It too had melted, but I could just make out a trellis pattern. I remembered it from the kiosk, the one that had led to the temple of the dead. I cut my way through the weeds. A darkness opened up ahead. I stared into it. There were stairs, leading deep into the earth. The entrance had been almost totally concealed. I brushed the remaining weeds away. I started my descent into the underworld.

‘Down I went - down, down, down. The darkness began to be lit by red flames. As they grew stronger, I recognised frescoes painted on the walls, the same I had seen on my descent all those years before. I paused by the entranceway. I saw the altar and the chasm of fire, unchanged. I breathed in the heavy air. And then, at once, I tensed. I swept back my cloak. There was a vampire, ahead of me, I could smell its blood. What was such a creature doing here? I nerved myself. Cautiously, I walked into the shrine.

‘A black-cloaked figure stood against the flames. It had its back to me. Slowly, it turned round. It lifted the hood that was covering its face. “You killed him then,” said Haidée.

‘For an eternity, it seemed, I didn’t reply. I stared into her face. It was wrinkled and dry, aged before her time. Only her eyes had the freshness I remembered. But it was her. It was her. I took a step forwards. I held out my arms. I laughed with relief, and joy, and love. But Haidée, watching me, backed away.

‘“Haidée.”

‘She turned.

‘“Please,” I whispered. She made no answer. I paused. “Please,” I said again. “Let me hold you. I had thought you were dead.”

‘“And am I not?” she said softly.

‘I shook my head. “We are what we are.”

‘“Is that so?” she asked, turning to look at me again. “Oh, Byron,” she whispered. “Byron.” I saw tears begin to line her eyes. I had never seen a vampire weep before. I reached for her, and this time, she let me take her in my arms. She began to sob, and kiss me, her dry lips pressing almost desperately, and still she sobbed, and then she began to hit me with her fists. “Byron, Byron, you fell, you fell, you let him win. Byron.” Her body shook with her anger and tears, and then she kissed me again, even more urgently than before, and held me as though she would never let me go. Her body still shuddered as it pressed against my own.

‘I stroked her hair, now lined with grey. “How did you know,” I asked, “to wait for me here?”

‘Haidée blinked her tears away. “He had told me what he intended to do.”

‘“That if I agreed - he would send me here?”

‘Haidée nodded. “He is dead? Truly dead?”

‘“ Yes.”

‘Haidée looked into my eyes. “Of course he is,” she whispered. “You are beautiful and young once again.”

‘“And you,” I asked, “he gave you the Gift as well?”

‘She nodded.

‘“So you could have done what I did. You could have—”

‘“Had my beauty restored?” She laughed bitterly. “My youth?”

‘I made no answer, but bowed my head.

‘Haidée took her arms away from me. “I try not to drink human blood,” she said.

‘I frowned in disbelief. Haidée smiled at me. She opened her cloak. Her body was shrivelled and lined, an old woman’s, touched by black. “Sometimes,” she said, “lizards, crawling animals - I will drink from them. Once, a Turk who tried to force himself on me. But other wise . . .”

‘I stared at her appalled. “Haidée . . .”

‘“No!” she screamed suddenly. “No! I am not a vardoulacha ! I am not!” She shuddered, and clutched at her body, as though she longed to rip her vampire flesh away. She shook, and when I tried to touch her again, she beat me back. “No, no, no . . .” Her voice trailed away, but no tears would rise now to her burning eyes. She clutched herself as she stared at me.

‘“The Pasha, though,” I whispered, “he was a killer, and a Turk.”

‘Slowly, Haidée began to laugh, a terrible, heart-rending sound. “Did you not realise?” she asked.

‘“ What?”

‘“He was my father.” She stared at me wildly. “My father! Flesh of my flesh - blood of my blood.” She started to shake again, and moved even further back from me, so that her head was now framed by the wall of fire. “I couldn’t,” she whispered, “I couldn’t, no matter what he had done, I couldn’t, I couldn’t! Don’t you see? Surely you wouldn’t have had me drink my own father’s blood? Not the man who had given me life?” She laughed. “But of course, I was forgetting - you are the creature who has killed his own child.”

‘I stared at her in horror. “I never knew,” I said eventually.

‘“Oh yes.” Haidée smoothed back her hair. “He had bred me. It seems that was something he had always done - fathering on his brood-mare peasants in the village. But I was different. For some reason, I touched his heart. In his own way, perhaps, he even loved me. He let me live. He fed on me, of course, but he let me live. His daughter. His beloved daughter.” She smiled. “He had intended to give me to you, all along. Isn’t that amusing, isn’t that strange? You were to be his heir - and I your vampire bride. No wonder he was upset when we fled from him.”

‘I swallowed. “He told you this himself?”

‘“Yes. Before he . . .” Her voice trailed away. She hugged herself tight, and rocked to and fro. “Before he made me a monster.”

‘I stared into her burning vampire eyes. “But after that?” I asked. I shook my head in passionate disbelief. “Afterwards, you never tried to follow me?”

‘“Oh yes.”

‘Her words were cold. They settled in the pit of my stomach like ice. “I never saw you,” I said.

‘“Didn’t you?”

‘“No.”

‘“Then perhaps it was because I couldn’t bear you to.” She turned from me, to stare into the flames. For a long time, she seemed to trace patterns in the fire. She turned back to me. “But think,” she said with sudden passion. “Are you certain? Think, Byron, think!”

‘“Was it you at Missolonghi?”

‘“Oh yes, of course, there was Missolonghi too.” Haidée laughed. “But how could I have resisted catching a glimpse of you then? After so long - to hear your name, the messiah from the West, on everyone’s lips. And I hoped - perhaps - a tiny part of the reason you had come . . .” She paused. “You had memories of me?”

‘I stared into her eyes. There was no need for me to make a reply.

‘“Byron.” She reached for my hands. She held them tight. “So beautiful you looked. Even old, even coarsened, riding by the swamps.”

‘I remembered her pointing, and the words she had cried. “Why did you want me dead?” I asked.

‘“Because I love you still,” she said. I kissed her. She smiled sadly at me. “Because I am old and ugly, and you - you, Byron, are a vardoulacha too, who were once so brave and good.” She paused. She bent her head, then looked up at me. “But . . . as I said - it was not the first time I came after you.”

‘I stared at her. “When?” I asked.

‘She lowered her head.

‘“Haidée - tell me - when?”

‘Her eyes met mine again. “In Athens,” she said quietly.

‘“Very soon, then, after . . .”

‘“Yes - a year after that. I followed you. I watched you kill. I was wretched. But perhaps I would still have revealed myself to you . . .” She paused.

‘“Except?” I asked.

‘She smiled at me - and suddenly, I knew. I remembered the street, the woman holding the baby in her arms, the scent of golden blood. “It was you,” I whispered. “The child in your arms, it was ours - yours, and mine.” Haidée didn’t answer. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me that I’m right.”

‘“So you do remember, then,” said Haidée at last. She took a step towards me, away from the flames. I held her in my arms. I stared over her shoulder into the fire. “A child,” I whispered. “From that last hour - a child.” A thread, however delicate, wound from our final act of mortal love. A memory, preserved in human form, stamped with the imprint of what we had been. A link, a last link, to all that we had lost. A child.’ Lord Byron shook his head. He stared at Rebecca, and slowly, he smiled.

‘It was a boy. Haidée had had him sent away. She had not been able to bear his scent. I too, of course, was dangerous to him. He had been kept at school in Nafplio. I could not go and see him with my own eyes, of course, but when we left Aheron together, Haidée and I, we made provision for our son. I had him taken from Nafplio, and sent to London. He was educated there as an Englishman. Eventually, he even took an English name.’ He smiled again. ‘Can you guess what it was?’

Rebecca nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said dully. ‘It was Ruthven.’ She sat frozen. She had heard the noise from the darkness again. She met Lord Byron’s stare. Gently, she moistened her lips. ‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Did you stay away from England, and your son?’

‘From England, yes - in the main. I had the Pasha’s manuscripts. With Haidée, I continued the search, across continents and hidden worlds. But Haidée soon was growing old - too old to walk - too old to be seen.’

Rebecca nodded, appalled. She understood. ‘Haidée then - she is the - thing - I saw in the crypt?’

‘Yes. She has still not drunk. She stays down there, in that place of the dead. The Pasha’s body too is near her, beneath the tombstone in the church. For two long centuries they have rotted there together, the Pasha dead, Haidée still alive, and waiting in vain for my search’s end.’

‘So’ - Rebecca swallowed - ‘you have not found it yet?’

Lord Byron smiled grimly. ‘You have seen that I have not.’

Rebecca twisted a curl of her auburn hair. ‘And will you ever succeed?’ she dared to ask at last.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I think you will.’

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head. ‘May I ask why?’

‘Because you still exist. You could end it, but you do not. As the Pasha promised - there must be hope after all.’

Lord Byron smiled. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But to die - it would be at Polidori’s hands - and that I couldn’t bear.’ His brow darkened. ‘No. Not destroyed by an enemy. Not by one who has killed all I loved.’ He stared at Rebecca. ‘You understand, of course, that your own presence here is due only to his hate. Each generation of Ruthvens, he has sent to me. You, Rebecca, I am afraid, are not the first, but only one of a very long line.’

Rebecca stared at him, at the ice and pity mingled in his eyes. She understood now that she was doomed. Her fate, after all, had already been sealed. ‘Polidori, then,’ she asked, in a steady voice, ‘he doesn’t know that you can be destroyed.’

Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘No. He doesn’t.’

Rebecca swallowed. ‘Whereas now, I do.’

Again, he smiled. ‘Indeed.’

Rebecca rose to her feet. Slowly, Lord Byron did the same. Rebecca tensed, but he passed her, watching her all the time, and walked into the shadows. The scratching from the darkness was insistent now. She searched the gloom but could make nothing out. Lord Byron, though, was watching her. His pale face gleamed like a flame of light. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

‘Please.’

Slowly, Lord Byron shook his head.

‘Please.’ She began to back towards the door. ‘Why have you told me all this, if only to finish it by killing me?’

‘So that you might understand what your death will achieve. So it can be easier.’ He paused, and glanced into the shadows. ‘For both of you.’

‘Both?’ Again, there was the scrabbling. Rebecca stared wildly into the dark.

‘There is no other way,’ Lord Byron whispered. ‘It must be done.’ But he was not speaking to Rebecca any more. He was gazing at a shadowy form, crouched down beside his feet. His arm shaking, he stroked its head. Slowly, it crossed into the candlelight.

Rebecca stared at it. She moaned. ‘No. No!’ She clasped her fingers over her eyes.

‘And yet once, Rebecca, she was very like you. Yes. Very strangely like you.’ Lord Byron stared at her with mingled pity and desire. Softly, he crossed to her. ‘Do you dare look into her face again? No? And yet I tell you’ - Rebecca felt the soft touch of his lips upon her own - ‘she had your face, your form, your loveliness. It is as if . . .’ His voice trailed away.

Rebecca opened her eyes. She stared into the dark depths of Lord Byron’s gaze. She saw him frown, and traced misery and hope as they crossed his face. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

‘You are her very image, you know.’

‘Please.’

He shook his head. ‘She must have you. She must drink her own blood at last. Two hundred years have passed, and now . . . here you are - with a face like the one that used to be her own. And so . . .’ Again he kissed Rebecca softly on the lips. ‘I am sorry. I am sorry, Rebecca. But I hope, perhaps now, you can at least understand. Forgive me, Rebecca.’

He took a step backwards. Rebecca stared, transfixed, at the soft flame of his face. She saw him glance down at the creature waiting twisted at his feet. She too stared down at it. Suddenly, red eyes, bright as coals, met her look. Rebecca began to shake. She turned. She pushed against the door. It opened, and she stumbled out, and slammed it shut again.

She began to run. A long corridor was stretching away from her. She didn’t remember it from before. It was badly lit, and she could scarcely make her way. Behind her, the door stayed closed. Suddenly, Rebecca stood still. She thought she could see something, hanging, just ahead. It was swinging slightly, and creaking. Then Rebecca heard the splash of liquid on the floor.

She breathed in deeply. Slowly, she walked towards the hanging thing. It was pale, she could see now, gleaming in the dark, and then suddenly her blood froze solid in her veins, for she saw that the gleam was that of flesh, human flesh, a carcass hanging by its heels from a hook. Again there was the drip of liquid on the floor. Rebecca stared down. A thick droplet of blood was forming in the corpse’s nose. It fell, and again there was the splash on the floor. Rebecca saw now why the body was so gleamingly white. Not knowing what she did, she touched the corpse’s side. It was cold, and virtually drained of its blood. Again, there was the splash. Rebecca crouched down on her heels. She stared into the corpse’s face. She tried to scream. No sound came out. She looked again at her mother’s face. Then she rose and began to shudder, and run.

All the way down the corridor, further corpses had been hung by hooks. Rebecca had to pass them as she stumbled on her way, and they would swing against her face, clammy and smooth as she tried to brush them aside. On and on she staggered; more and more, the corpses of the Ruthvens blocked her way. At last, Rebecca fell to her knees, sobbing with hatred and fear and disgust. She turned round, looked at the row of butcher’s hooks she had passed, and moaned. Back down the corridor, beyond her mother’s corpse, waited a gleaming, empty hook. Rebecca found her voice at last; she screamed. The hook began to swing. Rebecca buried her face in her hands; again she screamed; she waited, prostrate, on the corridor floor.

At last, she dared to look up again. The corridor was empty. The row of her ancestors had disappeared. Rebecca stared around. Nothing. Nothing at all. ‘Where are you?’ she screamed. ‘Byron! Where are you? Kill me if you must but no more tricks like these!’ She pointed at where the carcasses had been, and waited. Still the corridor continued empty as before. ‘Haidée!’ Rebecca paused. ‘Haidée!’ No answer. Rebecca rose to her feet. Ahead of her, she saw a single door. She walked towards it. She pushed it open. Beyond, she saw a candle flame. She walked through the door; then she froze. She was standing in the catacomb.

The tomb was just in front of her; on the far wall were the steps that led up to the church. Rebecca crossed to them. She climbed the steps, and pushed at the door. It was locked. She pushed again. It wouldn’t shift. Rebecca sat on the top step, pressed against the door, waiting. All was silent now. The door behind the tomb was still open, but Rebecca couldn’t face returning to the corridor. She waited several minutes. Still silence. Gingerly, she descended a single step. She paused. Nothing. She walked down the remaining steps. She stared around the crypt. The fountain bubbled noiselessly, otherwise all was still. Rebecca looked ahead, at the door behind the tomb. Perhaps she would make it. If she ran, and found a door onto the street - yes - she might make it after all. Quietly, she crossed the floor of the crypt. She stood by the tomb. She nerved herself. She knew, if she went, she would have to go - now.

The claw seized her around her throat. Rebecca screamed, but the cry was muffled by a second hand, holding her mouth and stifling her. Dust choked her eyes; it smelled of living death. Rebecca blinked. She looked up at the centuries-old thing that was Haidée. Two red eyes burning; open, toothless mouth; shrivelled insect-head. Rebecca struggled. The creature seemed so frail, but its strength was implacable. Rebecca felt its grip round her throat start to strangle her. She choked. She saw the creature raise its other hand. Its claws were long like scimitars. The thing stroked a single finger down her throat. Rebecca felt a welling of blood from the wound. Then she struggled to turn her head away. The thing was lowering its lips; the stench of its breath was terrible. Rebecca felt the claw touch her neck again. She waited. The lips, she knew, were just above the wound. She shut her eyes. She hoped that death, when it came, would be quick.

Then she heard the rattle of the creature’s breath. She tensed - and nothing happened. She opened her eyes. The creature had lifted its lips from her neck. It was staring at her with its burning eyes. It was shaking. ‘Do it,’ Rebecca heard Lord Byron say.

The thing still stared at her. Rebecca peered beyond its head. Lord Byron was standing beside the tomb. Slowly, the creature looked at him.

‘Do it,’ he said again.

The creature made no answer.

Lord Byron stretched out to touch its hairless skull. ‘Haidée,’ he whispered, ‘there is no other way. Please.’ He kissed her. ‘Please.’

Still, the creature was silent. Rebecca saw Lord Byron study her. ‘She knows the secret,’ he said. ‘I have told her everything.’ He waited. ‘Haidée, we agreed. She knows the secret. You cannot let her go.’

The creature shook. Its thin, skinless shoulders moved up and down. Lord Byron stretched out to comfort it, but he was brushed away. The creature stared into Rebecca’s eyes again. Its own face was twisted, as though with tears, but its burning eyes were as dry as before. Slowly, it opened its mouth - then shook its head. Rebecca felt the grip lift from around her throat.

The creature tried to rise. It staggered. Lord Byron captured it in his arms. He held it, kissing it, rocking it. Disbelievingly, Rebecca rose to her feet.

Lord Byron stared at her. His face was icy with pain and despair. ‘Go,’ he whispered.

Rebecca couldn’t move.

‘Go!’

She held her hands over her ears, the cry was so terrible. She ran from the crypt. On the stairway, she paused, to look back down. Lord Byron was bent over his charge, as a parent holds his child. Rebecca stood, frozen - then she turned, and ran, and left the crypt behind.

At the top of the stairs was a passageway. She followed it. At the far end, she reached a door; she turned the handle, and opened it, and gasped with delight when she saw the street beyond. It was dusk. The sunset was streaking the muggy London sky, and she stared at the colours with wonderment and joy. For a minute she paused, listening to the distant city roar, the sounds she had never thought to hear again - the sounds of life. Then she turned, and began to hurry down the street. She glanced round once. The front of Lord Byron’s house was still dark. The doors were all shut. No one seemed to be following her.

Had she paused, though, and hidden to make absolutely sure, she would have seen a figure slip out from the dark. She would have seen him tracing the way she had just gone. She would have smelled, perhaps, a distinctive tang. But she didn’t pause, and so she didn’t see her follower. He passed, as she did, and left the street behind. The faint smell of acid in the air was soon dispersed.