I heard him starting up stone steps, called out: ‘Faethor, when do I take up my duties? Or perhaps you've changed your mind and deem it too dangerous to let me out?'
His footsteps paused. ‘I'll let you out when I'm ready,' his muffled voice came back. ‘And when you are ready. .
He chuckled again, but more deeply in his throat this time.
‘Ready? I'm ready for better treatment than this!' I told him. ‘You should have brought me a girl. You can do more with a girl than just eat her!'
For a moment there was silence, then he said, ‘When you are your own master you may take what you like.' His voice was colder. ‘But I am not some mother cat to fetch fat mice for her kittens. A girl, a boy, a goat — blood is blood, Thibor. As for lust: you'll have time for that later, when you understand the real meaning of the word. For now... save your strength.' And then he moved on.
Ehrig had meanwhile taken hold of the basket, was sidling off with it. I gave him a cl6ut which knocked him protesting to the floor. Then I looked at the terrified birds and scowled. But... I was hungry and meat is meat. I had never been a squeamish one, and these birds were plump. And anyway, the vampire in me was taking the edge off all points of mannered custom and nicety and civilised behaviour. As for civilisation: what was that to me? A Wallach warrior, I had always been two-thirds barbarian!
I ate, and so did the dog Ehrig. Aye, and later, when next we slept, so did my ‘cousin' .
The next time I came awake — more strongly, surging awake, refreshed from my meal — I saw the Thing, that mindless being of vampire flesh which hid in the dark earth under the floor. I do not know what I had expected. Faethor had mentioned vines, creepers in the earth. That is what it was like. Partly, anyway.
If you have seen a squashy octopus from the sea, then you have seen something like the creature spawned of the finger which Faethor shed, fattened on the flesh of Arvos the gypsy. The one thing I cannot comment upon was its size; however, if a man's body were flattened to a doughy mass... it would spread a long way. The matter of Arvos had been reshaped.
Certainly the groping ‘hands' which the being put up were stretchy things. There were also many of them, and they were not lacking in strength. Its eyes were very strange: they formed and unformed, came and went; they ogled and blinked; but in all truth I cannot say that they saw. Indeed, I had the feeling they were blind. Or perhaps they saw in the way a newborn infant sees, without understanding.
When one of the thing's hands came up from the soil close to where I lay, I cursed out loud and kicked it away — and how it shot down out of sight then! How well another might fare I could not say, but the vampire thing was certainly wary of me. Perhaps it sensed that I was a higher form — of itself! I remember how at the time, that was a very shuddersome thought.
Faethor had this way with him: he was devious, sly as a fox, slippery as an eel. That was how I considered him, feelings brought on by sheer frustration. Of course he was that way: he was of the Wamphyri! I should not have expected him to be any other way. But quite simply, he would not be ambushed. I spent hours waiting for him behind the oak door, chains in my hands, hardly daring to breathe lest he hear me. But let hell freeze over, he would not come. Ah! But only let me fall asleep... a squealing piglet would wake me, or the fluttering of a tethered pigeon. And so the days, probably weeks, passed .
I will give him his due: after that first time the old devil didn't let me get too hungry. I think to myself now that the initial period of starvation was to let the vampire in me take hold. It had nothing else to feed on and so must rely on my stored fats, must become more fully a part of me. Similarly, I was obliged to draw on its strength. But as soon as the bond was properly formed, then Faethor could begin to fatten us up again. And I use that phrase advisedly.
Along with the food, there would be the occasional jug of red wine. At first, remembering how the Ferenczy had drugged me, I was careful. I would let Ehrig drink first, then watch for his reaction. But apart from a loosening of his tongue, there was nothing. And so I too drank. Later I would give Ehrig none of the wine but consume it myself. That, too, was exactly the way the old devil had planned it.
Came the time when, after a meal, I was thirsty and quaffed a jug at one swig — then staggered this way and that before collapsing. Poisoned again! Faethor had made a fool of me at every turn. But this time my vampire strength buoyed me up; I held fast to my consciousness, and sprawling there in my fever I wondered: now what is the purpose of this? Hah! Only listen, and I'll explain Faethor's purpose.
‘A girl, a boy, a goat — blood is blood,' he'd told me that time. ‘The blood is the life.' Indeed, but what he had not told me was this: that of all pulses of delight, of all founts of immortality, of all nectar-bearing flowers, that one source from which a vampire would most prefer to sip is the throbbing red rush of another vampire's blood! And so, when I had succumbed more fully to his wine, then Faethor came to me again.
‘Two purposes are served here,' he told me, crouching over me. ‘One: it is long and long since I took from one of my own, and a great thirst is on me. Two: you are a hard one and will not submit to thraldom without a fight. So be it, this should take all of the sting out of you.'
‘What... what are you doing?' I croaked the question, tried to will my leaden arms to rise up and fend him off. It was useless; I was weak as a kitten; even my throat found the greatest difficulty simply forming words.
‘Doing? Why, I sit me down to my evening meal!' he answered, gleefully. ‘And such a menu! Blood of a strong man — spiced with the blood of the fledgling vampire within him!'
‘You... you'll drink from... from my throat?' I stared up at him aghast, my vision swimming.
He merely smiled — but a smile hideous as any I ever saw him make — and tore my clothes. Then he put his terrible tapering hands on me and felt my flesh all over, frowning a little as he searched for something. He turned me on my side, touched my spine, pressed it again, harder, and said, ‘Ah! The very gobbet, the prize itself!'
I would have cringed away from him but could not. Inside I cringed — perhaps that child of his within me cringed, too — but externally my skin merely shivered. I tried to speak, but that also had grown too difficult. My lips only trembled and I made a moaning sound.
‘Thibor,' the old devil said, his voice level as if in polite conversation, ‘you've much to learn, my son. About me, about yourself, about the Wamphyri. You are not yet aware, you fail to perceive all the mysteries I have bestowed upon you. But what I am, you shall be. And the powers I possess, they too shall be yours. You have seen and learned a little, now see and experience more!'
He continued to balance me on my side, but propped up my head a little so that I could see his face. His magnetic eyes held me, a fish, speared on their pupils. My blurred sight cleared; the picture sharpened; I saw more clearly than ever before. My body and limbs might well be made of lead, but my mind was sharp as a knife, my awareness so keen that I could almost feel the change taking place in the creature who leaned over me. Faethor had somehow, for some reason, heightened my perceptions, increased my sensitivity.
‘Now watch,' he hissed. ‘Observe!'
The skin of Faethor's face, large-pored and grainy at best, underwent a swift metamorphosis. Watching it I thought: I have never known what he looks like. And even now I won't know. He is how he wants me to see him!