Work Text:
James Asher faded in and out of consciousness, and it was some time before he could focus on the voices drifting past him like phantom ships in a fog.
"He's an abomination, that's what 'e is! The infernal meddler should 'ave been disposed of long ago, e're he betrays one or all of us."
A brief silence then, dark and dangerous. "He is my responsibility, Lionel. I would not hesitate to kill him if I thought he was a danger to us."
"Faith! You'd not destroy that mortal if he were drivin' a stake through your heart."
"It is different now. I can control him."
"You'd better, Spaniard, you'd better. And if I find you're challengin' me . . . ."
"I would never challenge one such as you, Lionel." The disdain rang clear as a bell, even amidst Asher's stupor, and he wondered hazily if Simon had tired of continuing his undead existence.
When Asher finally regained full consciousness, it was to a plethora of aches, and he thought at first he'd taken a spill off his motorbike. It wasn't until he saw the slim figure sitting cross-legged in an oversized chair next to him that he remembered what had happened. He looked down to catalogue his injuries and found that his coat and waistcoat were both gone. The sleeve of his shirt had been cut off just below the elbow and the knife wound on his arm neatly bandaged.
"I assume another 'thank you' is in order," he said.
Don Simon Ysidro's head inclined slightly, causing the pale hair to drift around his face. The vampire was immaculately dressed, as usual, with no indication that he'd just massacred three men in as little time as it took one to tie a cravat.
Or had Asher merely been unconscious longer than he'd thought? He started to sit up in order to locate his watch, but the motion brought instant agony from his injured shoulder and he gasped, eyes going wide.
"You have only been unconscious for two hours," Simon said, answering the unspoken question. "I would advise you not to move, for some time at least."
"Well, I certainly can't stay here."
Again, the slight movement of his head, the motion no more than a blade of grass bending in a gentle breeze. "And why can you not?" he asked, curiosity leaking into the usual tonelessness of his speech.
"I'm fairly certain I heard Grippen's voice, and since I doubt I'm in his good graces at the moment -- not that I ever was -- I thought it best for both of us if I were on my way," Asher said.
"Even if you were able to walk, or sit up for that matter, your mortal foes are still searching for you. I did not have time to kill them all." The amber eyes glowed eerily in the low light, and Asher wasn't sure when he'd seen them quite so cold and hard. "As for Lionel . . ." His nostrils flared briefly. "He and I have come to an accommodation."
Asher said, "Somehow, I find it hard to believe that Grippen would accommodate anyone but himself."
Utter stillness again. The stillness of the crouching predator. "He knows there are some matters on which I will not yield. Even to the Master of London."
Asher remembered the deadly efficiency at which Simon had despatched his attackers and shivered. He didn't think it was merely from the chill in the room.
Simon leaned forward to pull a blanket up over his chest. His proximity made the pallor of his face more pronounced.
"You haven't fed," Asher said, surprised. "I thought you would have. . . ."
"You were injured," he said, "and I did not know how badly."
So why do I have the strangest inclination to apologize to him?
"I thought I'd moved fast enough to avoid the worst of the blow from that club," Asher said. "At least, it shouldn't have taken me completely out of the fight like that." He sighed. "I must be getting old as well as slow."
If he hadn't spent so much time in the vampire's company, he would have missed it. That stillness upon stillness, the infinitesimal "something" that told him he'd somehow touched a nerve.
Simon gazed at a spot above his head. "The pain will improve rapidly, if you allow it to do so. The cloth of your coat will have protected you to some degree."
Asher didn't bother pointing out that a few layers of cloth would have little to no effect on the momentum of the blow. He wasn't about to debate physics with a vampire, but it was an odd statement nonetheless.
As if sensing Asher's curiosity, Simon rose silently from his chair and tended to the fire burning lowly behind a grate in the far wall.
For some reason, Asher didn't have to concentrate nearly as hard to see him move, and he wondered if one grew accustomed to the movements of vampires, as he himself had grown accustomed to mapping bolt holes and escape routes in his previous life as an agent for the government.
Or perhaps here, in what was obviously one of his haunts, Simon did not feel the need to mask his movements?
"You didn't have to start a fire just for me, you know," Asher said. "The blanket would have been sufficient."
Simon straightened, and his fair hair and pale skin gained a rosy tint from his nearness to the flames. It almost made him appear human. "On damp nights such as these, I will often light a fire. Even without . . . company."
Asher's eyes narrowed. "Are you beginning to feel the cold, like the older vampires you mentioned?" For some reason, the thought disturbed him.
The faintest of smiles touched Simon's lips. "I am not getting ‛senile', James, at least not yet. I use the fire for light and its heat as an aide in protecting . . . other things."
Asher knew that he would gain no further information on the "other things," so he stifled his curiosity. On that matter, at least. "How did you happen to be so close tonight?" he asked instead.
"I heard . . . ." He paused, and Asher saw the subtle signs of the vampire debating internally as to how much information to impart. "There was little happenstance involved, James. I have been watching you closely since we last parted company."
Asher felt somehow hurt. "You don't trust me? I made a promise not to seek out your kind, and I have a very precious reason not to break that promise."
Silence, and a raised eyebrow. "As odd as it may seem, I do trust you. However, I do not trust that danger will cease seeking you out." He paused. "As it did tonight. Why did those men attack you?"
"I can certainly guess. I heard two of them talking as I approached. They were speaking in German -- the German of the continent, Hochdeutsch -- and I don't believe in coincidences. I came to London at the request of an old friend, who wished to warn me that one of the Kaiser's agents had been killed by a British agent. Accidentally, I would presume. But this is information one does not commit to written form, hence my trip to the East End."
Simon cocked his head to one side like a bird. "Why would you assume the killing was an accident? You are opponents, are you not?"
How does one explain the intricacies of the Great Game to one who had never dealt with its particular eccentricities? "Because it is simply 'not done'. Every country has spies, every country knows that the other countries have spies, and it is an unwritten accord that one does not kill another country's operatives, except in a time of actual war, of course. On the rare instances when it does happen, it is usually met with an immediate reprisal."
Simon said, "Hence tonight. Yet you claim you are no longer employed by your government."
"One can never completely leave the shadows behind, as you should understand best of all," Asher replied. "I have kept up my foreign travel and studies to a lesser extent since I 'retired'. To do otherwise would only confirm suspicions of my ulterior motives in the past."
"And so you are guilty by association."
Asher smiled wanly. The events of the evening were beginning to tell on him. "So it would seem. You still haven't told me why you intervened tonight. I am no longer in your service, so why would you care?"
"You are my responsibility."
Asher eyed him curiously. "This has been my first trip to London in quite some time."
"Yes."
Asher wondered if the vampire had a permanent residence in Oxford, or whether he traveled to the small college town and returned to London. He wanted to ask why Simon was watching him so closely in the first place, but the fatigue suddenly washed over him in an endless wave. He said instead, "I may live another four decades, Simon."
The vampire didn't immediately respond, and Asher gradually faded into the sleep that his battered body demanded.
"Time waits for no man, but it has never been an inconvenience for our kind. As you shall see."
But he might have dreamed that quiet reply.
*****************************
Asher awoke feeling much improved. He sat up carefully, swinging his legs off the settee and onto the floor. His shoulder still ached, but it didn't appear to be broken or dislocated, as he had feared last night from the degree of pain he'd experienced initially. He unwound the bandage on his arm and found merely a thin red line where the knife had slightly scored the flesh. He was vaguely surprised Simon had bothered to bandage it at all.
The small study had no windows, but the fire had long since died to cold ashes, so he assumed he must have slept most of the day.
Looking around, Asher was mildly surprised that the room held none of the clutter that he associated with the other vampires' abodes. Other than his waistcoat and sack coat draped across the back of a chair, everything in the room was clean and orderly. The books were neatly stacked in their shelves and held none of the dust and air of disuse that he'd seen before, even while visiting Ernchester House.
On a mahogany consul table next to the settee was a cold meal of dried fruit, scones with honey and preserves, brown loaf and some kind of pate. Asher wondered vaguely where Simon had "acquired" the items, since he obviously didn't need to keep such supplies on hand. In any case, Asher had not eaten since catching the train to London the evening before, so he appreciated the gesture immensely.
Underneath the wooden serving tray was a note that was unsigned but written in Simon's archaic script. It stated, "I have sent a message to your wife explaining your condition and general whereabouts, entreating her to do nothing rash. I assured her you would return to Oxford this evening. Wait for me. You may explore your immediate environs -- to a point."
To a point? Asher assumed there would be some indicator of that limitation, since Simon generally left little to chance. For his kind, it was simply a survival characteristic, and he knew from personal experience that Simon was a very good vampire.
Curious, and feeling almost human again after his light meal, Asher rose carefully to his feet. He felt no dizziness or double vision, so he evidently hadn't a head injury to be concerned about. So emboldened, he redressed carefully, wincing when he was forced to lift his right arm. He walked to the only door in the room, half-expecting it to be locked.
It wasn't. The door opened smoothly with barely a creak from its antique brass hinges. There was a short hallway that led to a small vestibule, obviously to the main entrance. However, there was another door on the left side of the hall that showed a small amount of light coming from its threshold. Intrigued, Asher opened the door.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but what he found literally took his breath away.
It was obvious that the walls between adjoining rooms had been torn down and support pillars installed in their place. The resulting space was huge, encompassing almost the entire length of the building and included a high, vaulted ceiling that reminded Asher of an ancient church. Natural light entered the room from windows high on the exterior wall, which was unusual enough in a building owned by a vampire. They generally had no need of illumination and no desire to encourage prying human eyes.
Asher noted these things peripherally, as he noted the layout and design of every room he entered, but it was the contents of the room that garnered his unqualified attention. The room was filled almost entirely with paintings, some of them stacked a dozen deep against walls and columns.
There was a path of dark, well worn wooden flooring, and as Asher made his way through the gigantic room, he examined the canvas treasures in awe. They were almost entirely landscapes, but the principal subject seemed to be the city itself. He was looking at a history of London over the last 240 years, from the time of the Great Fire to modern times, immortalized in canvas, paint, and charcoal.
There were paintings of the construction of St. Paul's Cathedral, paintings of Buckingham Palace and its expansion, paintings of the old docks and warehouses and counting houses. He knew any museum would give a fortune for such a vivid record of the city's history, but the curator would wonder why the works were all painted at night and lit only by a succession of moonlight, gaslight, and arc lamp columns.
Asher continued to the far side of the room, where he found several paintings hanging on the wall that were so far removed from the style of the urban works that at first he wondered if Simon had painted them at all. They were all portraits of young men, and the passing of the centuries was obvious in the changes from ruffs to linen collars and from hose to breeches to trousers. Regardless of Simon's previous comments about the difficulties of portrait painting by candlelight, it was obvious these were all painted using that medium.
It was the intimacy of the portraits that surprised Asher. None of these were done in the stiff, awkward poses of the typical portrait setting. The subjects were relaxed and smiling, and all had obviously felt comfortable in the presence of the artist.
The expressions were so vivid, it was like gazing into a window -- as if one could discern the subjects' personalities simply by studying their faces. It was almost eerie the degree of life that had been captured on canvas by a man who'd been dead for three centuries.
Asher wondered who these young men had been, and why Simon had chosen to immortalize them forever with such undeniable care and diligence.
There was another room just to the right of these portraits, which Asher assumed was Simon's studio, but the knob would not turn when he attempted to open the door. Given his array of less than genteel talents, Asher could have easily unlocked the door, but he decided to respect Simon's boundaries.
So he wandered back into the main part of the room, absentmindedly lighting a few of the gaslights on the way. He stopped to examine a painting of Westminster Bridge with the murky, midnight water reflecting the pinpoints of tiny lights across the span. The degree of detail was stunning, and Asher knew he'd finally discovered how Simon Ysidro had occupied the long, empty nights of the past centuries.
"I have only one regret about my changed existence."
Asher hadn't even realized the sun had set. He should have been startled by the unobtrusive presence that appeared so suddenly at his shoulder, but he found the vampire's presence paradoxically soothing.
"What is that?" Asher asked, curious.
"I regret not seeing the sky at sunset, with all its attendant shades of twilight. Those are my most vivid memories of my life as a mortal -- the first teasing hints of the waning day, the spears of fire painted upon the evening clouds, the dark reds and purples enveloping the heavens like the rich folds of a king's robe, and the fading cobalt of the day's demise." Looking up into Asher's eyes, Simon paused -- a thin, pale wraith with the weight of centuries upon his shoulders. "I had always felt that true daylight bleached the palette of the sky, and it was only at twilight when the heavens truly came alive."
Asher was stunned. He gleaned few such reminiscences from Simon's tight-lipped conversations, and rarely anything so intensely personal. "I've found I prefer the dawn and dusk myself. I've spent too many years poring over ancient books and skulking in the shadows. These days, the light of a cloudless noon day hurts my eyes." Asher indicated the multitude of paintings. "Yet, twilight is something you've never included on canvas. Has it been so long you felt you couldn't do the colors justice?"
"No, our memories are quite long, which is what makes the unending changes around us so difficult to bear." He paused. "I have simply not found a subject worthy of such a background. The memory is quite precious to me, you understand, and I have said before that a vampire has a tendency to hoard precious things."
Simon beckoned toward the door, and Asher followed him as they returned to the relative warmth of the study. Simon had evidently restarted the fire before he'd gone to the gallery in search of Asher.
Emboldened by Simon's unaccustomed verbosity, Asher asked, "How did you know I was in trouble last night, Simon? If you had been merely following me at the time, you wouldn't have waited so long to intervene. There would have been no purpose, considering the violence of your response when you did get involved."
Simon stared at him with his eyes half-lidded, as if he could see Asher in a different light in such a manner . . . and had found him somehow lacking. His pause was long enough that Asher was certain he wouldn't answer -- that he'd forever be ignorant of the vampire's true motive.
"You no longer wear your silver chains," Simon said.
Puzzled at the change in subject, Asher said, "No. After a few months I developed a rash. Lydia called it an immunologic reaction, an ‛allergy' as it is now called, and said that I'd most likely become hypersensitive to the metal after wearing it so long."
"Have you touched silver since you removed the chains, say, as in handling coins?"
Asher felt a sudden disquiet over the vampire's questions, but he considered his reply carefully. "No," he said slowly, "not without gloves, at least. The weather has been too cold."
The vampire stared at a point past Asher's shoulder, not looking him in the eye. It was a brittle silence, as if any words at that point would shatter the very fabric of the air around them. And still Asher could see the debate raging behind the amber eyes.
"How did you know I was in trouble last night?" Asher asked again.
Simon's eyes finally met his. "Because I heard you cry out."
"I said nothing aloud," Asher said. "In that part of the city, it would have only lured another pack of jackals and definitely not an offer of assistance."
The vampire pursed his thin lips. "It is difficult to explain. It was a feeling of unease, a pulling, a need to be at that place. I knew it was you who called, and I also knew you were in significant danger."
Asher's eyes narrowed. "You have said you could call anyone whose eyes you had met. You never said anything about it working the other way around."
"It does not. I have never felt that particular sensation before."
"Why, Simon?"
If Simon had been human, Asher would have said he'd paused to take a deep breath. The appearance of bracing for a hard blow, however, was much the same. "Because I am not the Master of London, and thus I have never created a fledgling before."
Asher swayed, feeling suddenly faint, as one would after an injury and substantial loss of blood.
As he did after the Paris vampires and Grippen had attacked and nearly killed him last year.
Simon was instantly by his side, and this time Asher did not see him move. He gripped both of Asher's upper arms with his slim hands, and Asher could have sworn he saw distress on his usually impassive visage.
"I am sorry, James."
Asher felt his heart pounding, his mortal heart pounding. What Simon had said could not possibly be true. "What . . . what did you do?"
Simon guided him to a nearby chair, sat him firmly down in it, and then began to actually pace. Asher had never seen the previously unflappable vampire so ill at ease, and it did nothing to soothe his already rampaging fears.
The vampire stopped and clasped his hands behind his back in some odd semblance of military parade rest, gazing again past Asher's shoulder. "You were dying, James. Your heart was beating as rapidly as a bird's, and it was so faint that I thought you already dead when I arrived in the cellar. You were so terribly cold, and all the veins in your arms had already collapsed." His gaze abruptly fixed on Asher's. "I have seen such a death a thousand times -- I have caused such a death a thousand times. I know its face. There was no doubt in my mind that I would lose . . . that you would not survive the hour."
"You tried to make me a vampire. Against my will."
Simon's eyes narrowed. "Not against your will. I have said that only one in a thousand has the strength of will to survive, to prevail against true death at all costs, and I knew you were one such being. If I were wrong, or if you refused me, you would have died anyway -- a permanent death -- and I could not allow such a thing without at least making the attempt."
"I would never choose such a thing, Simon."
The vampire nodded. "I held little hope. However, for a time, you did make that choice. I drank very briefly of your blood, then slashed my wrist and held it to your mouth. Perhaps the blood loss had caused such a thirst that you drank of my blood for that reason, but you did drink." His eyes lost focus. "For a brief time, I touched your mind, James. I touched your very soul. I felt the fervent, unquenchable fire that is the core of your being, and I knew that I would succeed in bringing you across."
"But I am not a vampire."
"No, you are not. The process was . . . interrupted."
"Brother Anthony?"
Simon closed his eyes. Asher had been so focused on the vampire's gaze that it felt as if someone had suddenly doused the only light in a windowless room.
"No. By you." His eyes opened again, and he continued, "You wrenched your face from my wrist and pushed me away." He shook his head, his hair drifting softly with the movement. "One in a thousand has the strength of will to become a vampire, but only one in a million has the strength of conscience to discard that prospect for continued existence."
Asher knew that as weak as he had been, the "push" would have been as faint as the brush of a butterfly's wings against the immense strength of the vampire. "You allowed me to die, then?"
Simon nodded. "I said the prayers to a God who would have nothing more to do with me, and I waited for you to die. I was utterly amazed that your heart continued to beat."
"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"
For a moment, Asher thought Simon would evade the question, but he finally said, "Because I thought I would lose your trust, and I thought . . . I genuinely thought nothing more would come of it."
"But something has come of it, hasn't it?"
"Yes."
The word was so faint that Asher thought he might have imagined it.
"I feel you in my mind, James. I can feel your emotions, your cares, your worries and your pain. I still hold a part of you within me -- the part of your innermost self that you entrusted to me -- and I imagine this is as much the awareness of a Master vampire of his fledgling that it makes no difference."
Asher sighed. "So my sensitivity to silver is not an allergy?"
"No, at least not as a natural development. The club you were struck with last night was whitethorn -- even a glancing blow from that wood would be disabling to my kind. And you have already told me of your increased sensitivity to light." The vampire shook his head. "No, you have my blood in your veins now, James, and I fear you have developed some of my weaknesses."
"Will I eventually become one of you?"
"I do not know." Asher heard genuine frustration in the soft voice. "I have inquired, I have researched, and I have found no other such manifestations as yours. No other case where the incipient fledgling refused the final step . . . and survived."
"This will cause trouble for you as well, with Grippen."
Simon sniffed delicately, and Asher smiled in spite of himself. The disdain the aristocracy held for the middle class was never so succinctly displayed.
"The . . . incident in question occurred in Paris, where he has no 'jurisdiction.' And since he was partly responsible for your near demise, I care not what he thinks." His eyes flashed dangerously. "In any case, he cannot claim I have created a fledgling, since you are obviously still mortal."
"Abomination," Asher said, recalling the earlier conversation. "That is what he called me."
"No. You are James Claudius Asher, as you have always been. However, I do fear your 'symptoms' will only progress."
"So, there will come a time when I can no longer gaze at the sun." He held his head in his hands. "What am I going to tell Lydia?"
Asher felt the cold, smooth skin of Simon's hand as his chin was lifted to meet the vampire's eyes. "I can do nothing save apologize again, James. I had no desire to cause you such distress. But if it is any consolation, I believe it will be many, many years before you are forced to forego even the twilight." The vampire's eyes blazed fiercely. "And whatever the eventual outcome, James, I will be here."
*****************************
Simon had fully expected James to shun him completely after he'd discovered what had been unwittingly done to him, but he had felt no anger or true resentment emanating from the human. Perhaps that would come later, but for now, James had said only, "How can I find you? I believe I have that right now."
Simon had merely nodded. "You do. You can leave a message here, although I do not sleep within these walls. In any case, I will not be far away. You have but to call, and I will come."
James had nodded, and Simon had seen him safely to the train station. He had watched as James had boarded the train back to Oxford, watched as he had briefly hesitated before stepping fully into the train. Simon felt as if he'd been watching this particular human forever, as if his own lonely existence prior to their first meeting had been nothing but a fractured dream.
Simon returned to his studio, knowing James would need time to himself -- and time alone with his lady wife.
After lighting the gas lamps, Simon removed the cloth covering his easel and mixed his paints carefully. It had been some time since he'd worked on this particular portrait, and it was only now that he felt the peace of mind to complete it.
He turned to face the portrait of James Asher -- a brown man with brown hair and an undying strength of will that shone fiercely through the expressive eyes. He stood in an open field, staring intently into the distance, as he had done while risking his life to save Simon's against the creature that had once been Dennis Blaydon.
Simon had not yet completed the background, so he paused to recall the last day of his mortality and then painted a late evening sky suffused with all the shades of twilight.
*end*