“You might not recognize this old boy,” Byron said to Hobhouse, “but he was my personal physician during that trip we took through the Alps in ‘16.”
Hobhouse stared at Crawford. “Yes, I do remember,” he said quietly. “You fired him for talking about living stones. St. Michael, eh?” To Crawford he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Both Byron and Crawford looked at him in surprise.
“You … said something about brandy,” Hobhouse remarked to Byron.
The lord nodded. “Upstairs,” he said, pointing the way with the pistol he still carried. He noticed it and set it down on one of the crates.
“No, bring it along,” said Hobhouse, “and your physician too.”
Byron was still frowning, but smiling now too. “He’s no longer my—”
Hobhouse was already making his way through the angling corridor between the crates. “Whatever he is,” he called back over his shoulder, “bring him along.”
Byron shrugged and waved toward the stairs. “After you, Doctor.”
The paintings had been taken down from the walls of Byron’s dining room, and faint white squares on the plaster marked where they had been. Hobhouse closed the windows while Byron poured brandy.
Hobhouse sat down and took a sip. “I talked to your half sister Augusta recently,” he said to Byron. “She showed me some stones you sent her, that summer when we toured the Alps. Little crystals, from Mont Blanc. And she showed me some of your letters.”
“I was drunk that whole summer,” Byron protested, “those letters are probably just—”
“Tell me about your involvement with this Carbonari crowd.”
“I—” Byron cocked an eyebrow at his old friend. “I could tell you I’m helping them overthrow their new Austrian masters, couldn’t I?”
“Of course you could. But I was there when you met Margarita Cogni, remember?” Hobhouse turned to Crawford. “It was in Venice in the summer of 1818; we were out riding one evening, and met two peasant girls, and Byron set about impressing one, and I the other.”
He looked back to Byron. “When I got mine alone,” Hobhouse went on, “it developed that she wanted to bite me. And she led me to believe that the Cogni woman had the same interests. I’ve always had to save you from … inappropriate women, and you recall I tried to talk you into ridding yourself of her too. But at the time I thought I was simply trying to rescue you from a mistress with perverted tastes.”
Byron looked shaken. “Christ, man, I’m glad you didn’t let her bite you.” He sighed and took a long sip of the brandy. “The Carbonari are trying to drive out the Austrians, you know—and I do think that’s a good cause.”
He held up his hand to stop Hobhouse from saying more. “But,” Byron went on, “you’re right, there’s more to my association with them than just that. In the eyes of the Carbonari, the species of which Margarita was a member is much more specifically the enemy than is the literal category of Austrians. The Carbonari have methods of keeping such creatures at bay, and I’ve been making use of those methods. You’ll have noticed that Teresa is entirely human, and unharmed—and so are Augusta and her child, and my ex-wife and her child.
“'At bay,'” said Hobhouse. “Is there a way to free yourself and your dependents from her—from her species—entirely?”
“Yes,” said Crawford.
Hobhouse looked at him, then back at Byron. “And do you intend to do it?”
“Just out of curiosity,” said Byron stiffly, “do you know what doing it will mean? The most … trivial consequence is that I’ll dry up, poetically.” Crawford noted with admiration that Byron did seem to be honestly trying to regard it as trivial. “I will have written my last line.”
Hobhouse leaned forward, and Crawford was surprised at how stern the man’s round, mild face could look. “And your children won’t become vampires.”
“They probably wouldn’t anyway,” said Byron irritably. “But yes, Aickman and I are going to do the trick shortly. And then I’ll be going to Greece, where I shall no doubt encounter another consequence before very long.”
Hobhouse glanced at Crawford, who shrugged slightly. Don’t look at me, Crawford thought, I can’t tell his sincerity from his posturing.
“You almost sound,” said Hobhouse carefully, “as if you believe that freeing yourself from this thing, from these things, will cause your death.”
Byron emptied his brandy glass and refilled it. His hand was shaking, and the decanter lip rattled on the edge of his glass. “I do believe that,” he said defiantly.
Crawford shook his head in puzzlement. “But people live longer, free from these creatures. You’ve been able to avoid the worst of the emaciation and anemia and fevers that their victims usually suffer, but it’s cost you a lot of effort, and even so hasn’t been entirely effective. Free of your vampire, you’d be really healthy, and with no necessity for your Carbonari measures.”
“You certainly haven’t lost your doctory tone, Aickman,” Byron said. “Hell, I’m sure what you say is true in most cases, but …”
After a moment’s silence Crawford lifted a hand inquiringly.
Byron sighed. “In my case, the creature has preserved me. I know I wouldn’t have lived as long as I have without its … its watching over me. Even though I insulted Lord Grey after he had come into my bedroom at Newstead Abbey when I was fifteen, and though I abandoned Margarita Cogni for Teresa, the thing …” He smiled. “It loved me, and loves me still.”
Crawford caught Hobhouse’s eye, and shook his head slightly. Their regard for us, he thought, is why they’re so destructive of us.
“And you,” said Hobhouse softly, “love it still.”
Byron shrugged. “I could love any creature that appeared to wish it.”
Hobhouse shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But you … will do it, right, this … exorcism?”
“Yes, I said I would and I will.”
“Is there any way I can help?”
“No,” said Byron, “it’s—”
“Yes,” interrupted Crawford.
Both men looked at him, Byron a little warily.
To Hobhouse, Crawford said, “Make him promise you—promise you, his oldest friend, schoolmate at Trinity and all that—that he won’t publish any more poetry. That would eliminate one of the strongest attractions the nephelim hold for him.” He turned to Byron. “In spite of your manner of seeming to despise poetry, I think it’s a huge part of how you, I don’t know, define yourself. As long as it’s still available out there, I can’t imagine you really wanting to abandon your vampire.”
Byron had been sputtering while Crawford spoke, and now burst out, “That’s ludicrous, Aickman, for a dozen reasons! For one thing, would you trust me to keep my promise?”
“A promise you made to Hobhouse—yes. Even more than your poetry, I think your honor is central to your definition of yourself.”
Byron seemed to flinch. “Well, what would there be to stop me from writing just for myself, for no audience but me and the monkeys? Or publishing under a pseudonym?”
“On the one hand it wouldn’t be read by the world, and on the other it wouldn’t be perceived as being Byron. For you, there’d be no point in it.”
Byron was looking hunted. “So you believe that this will eliminate any hesitancies I may have—that since I would have abdicated the poetry anyway, I’d have no reason not to do this.”