Hotel Villa Rosénberg

I stood at my window, looking out at the deepening night over Rosénberg. Many windows still lit, many more already shrouded; darkness seeming to collect in the corners between buildings, flowing slowly through the town like blood through a tired old body. The meal was excellent, just as Kryztof had promised, although the sight of Lyuba, my new charge, wolfing down her rare fillet steak before demolishing the remainders from the plates of both my brother and I has left a seemingly indelible impression. Ever since I found her, half dead by the side of the road, she has seemed insatiably hungry.

A cough from behind me roused me from my reverie, and when I turned to look, I saw my brother Kryztof in my doorway. The look on his face struck me as odd – apprehensive yet determined, and as he approached me, he began to speak.

– When I wrote to you, I did not tell you everything. I neglected to tell you about my…position. About what I have been doing – learning to do – for the past three years.

He stopped, peering through his glasses into the night. I waited for him to continue, but he seemed almost to have lost his way, his eyes darting from side to side and glaring at the street below us.

– What do you mean?

He turned to look at me, then shut the window and lead me over to the fireplace. He motioned for me to sit, which I did, while he remained standing. Leaning on the mantel of the fire, he removed his glasses, and began to clean them with the handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. These compulsive traits of his had already become familiar in the short time since I had been reunited with him; indeed one or two of them had become a little grating to say the least. He looked through the lenses at the gas light on the far wall before continuing.

– I did not find work immediately after the war. The revolution severed any links I had with my family, my home; my country. I had to leave the embassy, and for a while, I was almost destitute. It was a difficult time. I…almost died, but was saved, and those who rescued me took me in. They gave me shelter to begin with, but when the time came for me to leave, they allowed me to stay. They found me a position as an initiate – a novice if you will – and eventually I joined them and began to train.

– To train?

– In the ways of the Council of Watchers.

– Who?

– The Council of Watchers. They are an ancient order, spread throughout all the countries of the world, and they exist to combat the evils that are all around us.

– I do not understand.

– Hmm. How shall I explain.

Kryztof straightened, and looked to the ceiling.

– You remember the old stories our Grandmother told us?

– Of course. Gruesome stories about children being eaten by wolves, bewitched by the Baba Yaga, turned onto the street by their wicked stepmother…

– Indeed. In some ways, they can be thought of as cautionary tales – designed to keep children from harm. If you follow the rules, everything will be resolved happily. Always obey your parents –

Kryztof counted his points off on his fingers, and I began to feel that I was being lectured to, as if by a particularly officious school master. I am not sure how well I like this new Kryztof, he is becoming a little tiresome.

– Never insult old women; they will undoubtedly place a curse on you. Never leave your home without permission; you will suffer great misfortune. Never talk to strangers who are overly hirsute, or who appear to have a tail or horns; they may turn out to be wolves, or worse. Never kill game if it wears jewellery or tries to talk to you; it will turn out to be a child who disobeyed his parents. Always obey your parents. Never trust an offer of wealth or good fortune; there is always a price to pay.

– Yes…

– Some of these stories were, as you said, gruesome. I seem to recall that they gave you nightmares…

– They gave us both nightmares.

There were some nights when I would lie awake for hours after our bed–time story, afraid to move for fear some devilish creature would find and devour me. I would lie there, rigid, eyes open, protected only by the thickness of my cover from the terrors distilled on my mind from my Grandmother’s terrifying stories.

– Yes, well. This does not make the stories any less true.

– True?

– Some of these stories are, indeed…based...on truth. They were once told to remind us of the horrors that inhabit the dark places of this world, but the truth of them has mostly been forgotten, and now they serve only to frighten small children into remaining in bed the whole night through.

– What you are saying – it makes no sense. There aren’t any real monsters. How can these things be true?

– Because people do not wish to believe that there exists anything in this world over which they have no control. Because they choose not to see what is under their very noses when it disagrees with what they think is true and real.

Although I found it hard to believe what my brother was saying, I was unsettled; I could feel a doubt and a fear growing in the pit of my stomach.

– Because ignorance of the truth protects people; it makes them feel safe. Because without the work of the order, and that which they protect, there would be no peace or security in this world. Believe me, Aleksandir, the monsters do exist – I have seen them. As have you.

At these words, the fear in my gut condensed; I remembered something that I had not thought of for many years; once again the memory comes back to me. Clearer, perhaps, than at any time before. I remember the quiet of the woods as we played – no bird song, no movement; only the sounds that my brother and I made as we played on the log pile behind the house. The daughter of our neighbour played alongside us, and I remember the sound of her laughter as she ran towards the trees. I can see her before me even now, running, looking backwards over her shoulder. I remember the fear in my brother’s eyes, as she…ran out of sight…behind a tree.

For a moment I struggle to recall her name – Irena – but when I do, I remember that it did not happen like that. She did not run too fast for us; we did not lose sight of her between the trees. As she ran, she looked back, just as my brother saw what hid in the darkness between the branches. He caught me and hid my eyes, but not before I saw her lifted from the ground and into the branches above. We could have run after her, but remained, petrified, staring into the trees. The…thing…that carried her away…

An image appears in my mind, an angular chin the colour of obsidian; like the shell of a large beetle, held up to the light. Long, thin, spindly fingers, like the legs of a spider; and a sense of something cold… Above the chin, two deep–set, narrow, blood–red eyes, either side of a pointed, crooked nose.

– I am of course referring to the creature which attacked our neighbour’s daughter.

– Irena?

– Was that her name? I had forgotten.

– What was…that thing?

– That killed Irena?

– Yes.

– A demon. A harvester; a Ch’ulian. Particularly unpleasant things – they use children to line their nest, and to feed their young. They normally come out only at night, and sneak in through open windows. You can tell that they have been around by the marks they leave on glass. Their presence causes the air to chill unnaturally, you see, and this leaves a pattern on any window that they have tried to enter.

– You mean frost?

– That is one name for it. Hence the English name for the demon – "Jack Frost". Of course, this is incorrect, as they are all female, although their appearance is rather reminiscent of a hunched old man.

– I thought frost was frozen dew?

– Yes. On the ground that is true. But on a second story window, when the rest of the house is unaffected? Also, they inhabit wooded, hilly areas, which is why one does not see frost on the windows of townhouses. I have no idea why one would attack in broad daylight, unless poor Irena disturbed it. Nevertheless, it was a demon that killed her, and I have seen others since. There were… other…unspeakably worse things, during the war.

Even now, I still do not know whether to believe him. The story about Irena seemed totally impossible, and yet, somehow has a ring of truth that I cannot quite dispel. Particularly after… I know that what I saw in the woods that day was not human, and that Irena’s body was never found. New things come back to me, things that had seemed totally insignificant at the time. The whole summer, after she was taken, the glass was frosted every morning, but only the window of our bedroom – the attic room – and not the rest of the house. Our Grandmother came into the room every night and bolted the window shut, telling us that the night air was bad; it would stunt our growth…

Even on the warmest of summer nights, she would shut the window and forbid us to open it. I realise now that she must have known…

Kryztof continued, although I must confess I hardly heard him through the confusion of my own thoughts.

– In every generation, one girl is chosen, on who we must depend for our defence against these demons. She alone has the gifts necessary to safeguard our world against the tide of evil which otherwise would threaten our existence in this reality. For as long as this girl survives, we are safe – but when she dies, and her burden passes to the next in line, we are at our most vulnerable. If an allegory might be permitted, we are a little like a crab which must shed its carapace in order to grow; for a time we are without our customary protection, until our armour has returned. The Slayer is that protection, and I have been sent by the council to find the next in line; to ensure that she is given the training and guidance necessary to complete her task.

– One girl?

– Yes. The Slayer.

– How do you know who to look for?

– There are a number of girls who have the potential to become the Slayer, but only one is chosen. I have been given a likely location for one of these girls. However, according to our information, she may be itinerant, and my task is therefore made more difficult. That is why I wrote to you – I need your assistance to find this girl.

– How would I be able to help?

– Time is limited. Two of us working together will be able to find her more easily than I would, working alone.

– Could you not have told me all of this in your letter?

– And have my business known to every petty official who wishes to open my correspondence? Given the nature of the council, that would not be a wise move. Trust no-one; the first rule of any secret order worth its salt, and one to which I adhere by necessity rather than choice. Our order has been targeted by new leadership in the past; revolutionary leaders tend not to like the idea of a large, wealthy, well organized, secret organisation existing without their authority. It makes them a little nervous; they tend to use words like ‘army,’ ‘subversive’ and ‘undesirable’ shortly before they begin disbanding the local branch of our organisation, generally by means of sharp objects. No, no, I should much rather travel under the banner of scholarship. People tend to ask rather fewer questions.

– You were telling me about the girl…

– Ah, yes. The girl.

– Do we know who she is?

– Unfortunately not.

– What do you mean, unfortunately not?

– We don’t know her name. Or what she looks like. Our source is particularly vague about her identity, which is unusual. Only that the new Slayer may be called in Rosénberg by the time of the first new moon after Easter. That is tonight, at a precisely one minute past midnight.

– But – that only gives us four hours…

– …And thirteen minutes…

– That can not be long enough!

– Yes, but Rosénberg is not a large town. It should not be too hard to find her.

– But even in a town of this size… She is only one girl. Where do we begin?

– You are forgetting; she is, or has the potential to be, the Slayer. That fact alone sets her apart from the rest of the town’s population. Also, given our information, we must consider that she may a stranger to this town, quite possibly travelling alone. We suspect that she may be a Gypsy, or belong to some similar, nomadic people. Any vagrants entering the environs of a town of this size could not go unremarked– somebody would have seen them. Also, I have been staying at the hotel here for some two weeks, and in all that time I have heard no news of any newcomers to the town, Gypsy or otherwise. Other than a few traders, that is.

– Excepting ourselves, of course.

– Of course.

– How, then, do we find her?

– I am not sure. To be honest I had expected to find her by now; time is running out.

– Why do we have to find her by midnight?

– Our source tells us…

– Our source? Who is this source? Why do they know so much about this?

– The source is a prophecy.

– A prophecy?

– Yes.

– By who? A fortune–teller? A gypsy? Nostradamus?

– Not exactly. This source is more…reliable. It is the last pronunciation of the last prophetess of the oracle of Delphi. The actual transcript was lost centuries ago, but a codex exists…

– I cannot believe that I rode for eight weeks, risked my life, broke countless bylaws and all for a damned piece of paper.

– Vellum.

– I beg your pardon?

– The manuscript is written on vellum…

– I know what vellum is, Kryztof. That is not the point.

– Quite so. If you will permit me to continue?

– I see no means of stopping you.

Kryztof glared at me over the rims of his spectacles, breathing through his nose.

– I do apologise. Please continue.

– Very well. The manuscript is one of a number of predictive codices in our possession, of somewhat varied reliability and accuracy. This one in particular has proved remarkably reliable on several occasions in the past. It is trustworthy, if rather obscure and somewhat cryptic. Generally what is predicted becomes clear only after the events have transpired, if not shortly before. Many of the predictions of this particular prophetess deal in affairs of state, the rise and fall of countries and of rulers, none of which concerns us directly. Except in this case. If I may?

Kryztof drew a small leather–bound notebook from his inner pocket, battered and torn, the cover stained in places. He opened it at a mark somewhere near the middle and began to read.

– "Behold you shall see four signs – War, Disease, Famine, and Death. These are but the signs of the Great Evil which has come into the world. It comes neither from East, nor from West, neither North nor South. It shall come from below, and She who protects, whose gift is Death, can not aid us if he who Watches can not find her in the Red Town…" There are some astronomical predictions, which enabled us to approximate the correct date and time. The codex…is unclear, but it seems to indicate that there will be a disruption in the slayer line if we are not able to find the girl before the appointed time. The Slayer may be killed, but we…this is far from certain…in any case, the death of the Slayer should not prevent the next in line from taking her mantle…

Kryztof stopped, apparently bewildered; muttering under his breath.

– Most of the events in the codex have already come true. If only it were clearer… Still, we must trust the information it has given us, it is all we have. I have a bad feeling about this; we simply do not know the consequences of not finding the new Slayer, but the mention of this unnamed Great Evil does not bode well. The time and place in the codex are at least clear – the time is based on an astrological calendar which is exact almost to the minute. The Greeks excelled in astronomy above all else, so in this we are rather fortunate. The exact location is less clear; there are numerous locations that are, or have been, known as "the Red Town". However, by combining the two, it does limit the options to around a dozen towns on the European continent, two more in North Africa and one location in the South Pacific. The latter is a little unlikely as it is currently some thirty feet below sea level. In any case, I have been assigned to Rosénberg, so we have at least as good a chance of finding the Slayer here tonight than in any other place.

– Why here? And why at this particular time?

– There a variety of possible reasons. I have a theory; I believe that it is somehow connected to the Hellmouth which exists in this region.

– Hellmouth?

– Yes, a portal, if you like. A place where the boundaries between this reality and a number of other, rather less pleasant realities exist side–by–side. It is like a volcano, in many ways; sometimes, the plug holding the portal closed becomes weak, and allows a little of what exists on the other side to enter our own world. Sometimes, the pressure builds such that it erupts onto our side of the seal, and a great rush of evil things infect our reality. It has a tangible presence, even to the less perceptive of us.

At this point, I recalled the sense of unease, of being watched, or even followed since I had crossed the Jablunka pass, some two days ago. The memory made me shiver, again feeling that something was watching my every move.

– The Slayer is especially sensitive to such things, and her senses may well be on full alert. This is another way in which we may be able to tell her apart. If she has never experienced such things before, she may well be on edge; nervous, and quite possibly afraid.

– Why does nobody know about the Hellmouth?

– It is not the Hellmouth. There are others.

– Others?

– One in the far north, in Siberia, another in the jungles of Borneo, a young and particularly virulent one that opened quite recently in California. The nearest to us is one of the oldest – it has been in existence since the end of the last millennium; and people here are well aware of its existence. One would only have to mention the name Transylvania and it suggests to us all manner of unnatural goings on. Not that the regions reputation is ill–deserved; it has been a refuge of any number of demons over the centuries, vampyres in particular. Some of the creatures still inhabiting he region number themselves among the oldest beings on the planet. Their hierarchy stretches back for centuries. This is, indeed, a very old part of the world, and one that is infected by the presence of unadulterated evil.

Kryztof pulled out his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, and absently wound the action twice before replacing the watch.

– We should go. It is almost eight o’clock.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Kryztof crossed the room to the door, opening it barely an inch; just enough to look through. The door was flung open, knocking Kryztof across the room. A smallish figure entered – sauntered – in, one hand in his pocket, and a woodbine in the other. He was wearing a long military dress coat, and a pair of American jeans, his light brown hair oiled and swept back, in the style of a young English Aristocrat. He took a draw from the cigarette, deepening the lines on his pallid, gaunt cheeks, and exhaled in rough, guttural English,

"Evening Gents."

Kryztof groaned, and sat up, one lens of his glasses smashed.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Will’s the name. Here on some business, concerning a young lady."

"I do not know what you are talking about…"

"Don’t give me that, I’ll rip your bloody head off. Just tell me where she is."

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Oh, young girl, a gypsy, about so high,"

He motioned a little above his own shoulder height, looked at his hand, and then back at Kryztof.

"You know. The Slayer."

He smiled; humourless, dead eyes unblinking. He reminded me of a snake. Small, compact, but clearly lithe and his physical presence suggested that he was powerful enough to be deadly. I began to reach for my revolver, still hanging by my side, but before I could undo the clasp, he had launched himself across the room at me, gripping me by the throat and lifting me off the floor. His face, my God, his face – suddenly grotesque, deformed. His eyes had taken on a yellow hue – not the whites, but the iris itself – the pupil shrunk to a dot. And his teeth – the two canines hung down, like a snake’s fangs, protruding over his lower lip as he grinned at me.

"Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not that it’ll hurt me, it’ll just piss me off."

He breathed smoke out at me, making me choke. Despite this, and the hand gripping my throat, I somewhere found the breath to gasp,

– Vampyr!

Kryztof answered him,

"We don’t know. We were looking for her, also."

The vampyr did not release me, but rather tightened his grip on my throat.

"There’s no point lying, I know she’s here. I can smell her. "

"I…don’t know what you’re talking about…"

"Shame. Means I’m gonna have to hurt you."

He dropped me, punching me in the stomach so hard that I fell backwards over my chair, and landed awkwardly, winded and sore. I reached for my revolver, and realised that it was gone. The vampyr had taken it. He advanced towards my brother, spinning the gun on his finger by the trigger–guard. He flipped it once more, and thrust it into the pocket of his coat.

"Nice toy. Think I’ll keep it."

He lifted my brother by the collar, again holding him off the floor with one hand, as if to prove the strength in his small frame.

"Now, last chance. Where’s the Slayer?"

"Why would I tell you, even if I knew?"

"Because otherwise I’ll start hurting you. Like this."

He grabbed Kryztof’s small fourth finger, and snapped it. The finger folded back unnaturally, clearly broken. Krytof’s face went white, but he did not cry out.

"Oops."

I picked myself up from the floor, and staggered towards the fiend. He laughed at me, and threw a solid wood table across the room with his free hand; it struck me on my side, bruising my arm and snapping one of my already damaged ribs. The pain was incredible, but I could still draw breath after a fashion, so I knew that my lungs were not punctured. I drew myself up, but the pain made stars appear in my blackening vision, and I slumped back onto the floor. The creature was now pointing my own gun at me. I could not fight him; nor could I help my brother.

"The Slayer…"

"Yes?"

"She’ll kill you."

"Doubt it, mate. Already killed one. Few years back, out in China."

"Impossible…"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I sucked the little bitch dry."

"Will… William?"

"That’s my name."

"Not…William the Bloody?"

"Yep, that’s me. Bloody hell; must be gettin’ a reputation if the Watcher’s ‘ave heard of me. Aint gonna stop me killin’ you, though…"

He dropped Kryztof, catching his wrist as he fell and twisting him so that his arm was wrenched behind his back, the hand held up in the relentless grip of the vampyr.

"…unless you tell me where she is."

He grabbed the next finger, forced it backwards until Kryztof cried out in pain,

"You watching, pistol boy? Your turn next. Now. Where is she?"

"I…I don’t know…anything…"

He broke Kryztof’s finger, snapping it like a twig.

"I’m gonna run out of fingers at this rate. Might have to start pulling them off. Then we might get somewhere."

"I know she’s here. I’ve seen her. All I need is for you to tell me where she is."

Kryztof sobbed, the pain making him shake. He cried out again, trying not to look at his mangled fingers.

"I don’t…I…Please stop…"

"What’s the matter? Did I hurt your little fingers?

"Ah…I…I…"

A small, elfin woman entered the room. Long dark hair, hanging back from an angular face. She hung on the doorway, smiling at nobody in particular.

"Dru, ‘bout time. Can’t get nothin' out of these worms. Did you find the girl?"

"No, Spikey. She’s gone."

Dru laughed, head tilted to one side. She looked distracted, and strange. As if she were listening to a voice that only she could hear. She frowned, and looked directly at me.

"Gone?"

"Nobody there. All gone away."

The Vampyr seemed to relax, and his face reverted, back to a semblance of humanity. Kryztof gasped with relief as the tension on his twisted arm was partially released.

"Don’t worry, Spike, she’ll come. She likes him, see. Doesn’t want him to get hurt."

"What, love? The Watcher?"

"No. the other one. The one with the pretty eyes. Those big, pretty eyes."

She looked right through me, chilling my soul.

"Can’t we have some…fun…with her?"

"No, love, we’ve got a job to do. And we’ve gotta get movin’ too. Not long now."

"No fair. I want to play."

"Can’t sweet thing, got to be untouched when we hand her over."

"Don’t you want to play Spikey? Things aint been fun since Daddy got broke. I want to see your good face again, I want to see William smile…"

"Later my love, when we’ve done what we came for. We can play with these two for as long as you like."

Dru frowned again, as if working out the bargain. Then she smiled,

"Okay, we’ll keep them ‘til they stop working. We can have fun. Pity we can’t play with the Slayer, though."

"I know love. Soon. There’ll be another."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Kryztof roused himself, and looking up at his tormentor, he asked,

"What are you going to do to her?"

"What you worried about? You should see what we’re going to do to you."

"She’s here. She’s a–watching us, Spike."

All Hell broke loose. The window exploded inwards, showering the whole room with shards of glass and splinters of wood. Everything became a fevered dream; at once moving at incredible speed, but seeming to move so slowly as to take an age to take place.

Lyuba followed the wreckage of the window, swinging down from the window ledge above, and rolling across the floor. The couple hissed, and grew into their Vampyr faces; teeth, knotted brows, hideous mockeries of the human visage. Immediately, the one called Spike threw my brother across the room at me, knocking us both into a heap on the ground. Lyuba spun round, crouching low to the ground, whipping the female’s legs out from under her. She ducked a blow from the tawny male, and threw a punch to his midriff that knocked him backwards. The female – Dru – regained her feet, and attacked Lyuba, sharp claw–like hands aloft. The lunatic vampyr looked like a wildcat attacking, and she screeched and lashed out at Lyuba, time and time again failing to make contact as the Gypsy girl ducked and spun out of her way. Then, quicker than thought, she punched Dru in the jaw, caught her wrist and kicked her in the ribs. They did not crack, but the vampyr cried out in pain, trying vainly to avoid the blows. With a roar, the male leapt forward, pointing the pistol at Lyuba.

"Get away from her you bitch!"

Kryztof and I got to our feet; he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, and I thanked Heaven I had neglected to load the weapon. I picked up the nearest thing to hand – an iron candlestick – and flung it at Spike. He caught it without looking, then turned and grinned at us.

"Ta much. Might come in handy."

He swung it at Lyuba, catching her behind the ear. She staggered, and, with a snarl, he swung again. Kryztof, the fool, got in the way, catching the blow full in the face. Blood gushed from the wreckage of his nose, spilling down the front of his shirt; he staggered, moaning. The blood pouring from his face seemed to arouse the Vampyres. The female broke free, scratching her fingernails down the Slayer’s cheek; the one called Spike grabbed Kryztof on either side of his head, licked the blood seeping from his face, then bent his head back and bit into the side of his neck. I ran, as fast as my hurting ribs would let me, but before I came close enough to intervene, the Vampyr threw Kryztof into the wall. His neck cracked like a pistol shot – he was dead before his body crumpled onto the floor.

My Brother is dead. I feel detached – numb, even. Kryztof is dead and I could do nothing to help him. I sit beside his body, struggling to believe… Running over and over what has happened. The world is no longer the place I thought it was.

Lyuba is gone. The vampyres must have taken her, God alone knows where. When I regained consciousness, I found myself on the floor; a large gash on my forehead showing that I was knocked out. I do not know why the vampyres spared me. Perhaps they thought I was already dead. Perhaps they left one survivor to tell the world what happened. Or to take the blame.

When I awoke, it was already well past midnight. Too late to save Lyuba. Whatever they were planning to do to her has probably already happened by now. I ran downstairs, but there was no-one to help. The vampyres had slaughtered every living soul downstairs. Two of the serving girls were sat, facing each other in the chairs by the fire. Between them sat a tea set, and on each of their laps was an empty cup and saucer. Their lips were blue, faces ashen; drained of every drop of blood. The other girl – the daughter of the Hotel’s owner – lay on a nearby bench; on her side, hands under her head, legs crossed at the ankle. She looked as if she were asleep, but for the ragged bite marks on her throat, and the same pallid complexion as the other girls. The Hotel owner was in the kitchen, along with his young wife. The owner had been beaten so badly I could only recognise him by the clothing he had worn as he greeted us in the early evening. He lay, battered head to one side, his knees drawn up in front of him, arms locked around them. His wife had been stripped; her naked corpse hung in the meat locker – a meat hook forced through the back of her ankles – left there, hands trussed behind her back, swinging gently along with a side of ham and a string of dried sausages.

I vomited, and the taste and smell of it still lingers in my throat. I retched until there was nothing left. Until I felt numb.

I have lost everything. My brother, Lyuba – who was to know she was the slayer? If only we had the wit to see the ground beneath our feet. It was all for nothing – Kryztof’s mission has ended in failure, and there was nothing he or I could do to prevent it. I know what I must do next, but am afraid to begin.

I must go downstairs, and tend to the bodies. I cannot bear to leave them so despoiled, it is more inhuman than the deaths they suffered. Then I must try to find Lyuba. She was my charge for only a short time, but I cannot fail her in this. Whatever has happened to her, I will find her; I cannot abandon her to the whim of those creatures, whether she lives or no.

Something has changed.

She is…less. The voices have gone; she feels pain in tired muscles, the aches and bruises from the fight; she feels the cold, and her body beginning to die.