Page 44 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
I remain forever,
Your loving Jonathan
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Manor at Quatreface,
Part the Third
I replaced theletter and left the room hurriedly. I did not like to speculate as to the fate of its occupant but, given that we found the house in darkness on arrival and that his missive was dated two days earlier and had still not been sent, it seemed to me likely that he had either escaped, perished, or met some worse fate. I sent a silent prayer that it would prove to be the former, then endeavoured to put the matter out of mind.
The only section of the house I had thus far failed to search was the tower, and so it was towards this that I now proceeded. That I had yet to cross paths with Ms. Haas concerned me a little, but I took consolation in the knowledge that she was more than the equal of anything she might encounter, and further consolation in the fact that I had come thus far without falling prey to any of the building’s supernatural inhabitants.
The rooms in the tower seemed better maintained on average than those in the main house. Even those primarily dedicated to storage were neatly arranged in a manner that spoke of regular use. One of them was dedicated entirely to clothing of the feminine variety. Although this was very much not my area of expertise, I noted that the garments therein were divided into two distinct collections that differed from each other in style, cut, and size. The more extensive ofthem consisted of a great many sombre gowns in tones of black, red, and silver and represented a bewildering range of fashions stretching back at least four hundred years. The others, by contrast, seemed to belong to no era with which I was familiar. Many of them, frankly, more closely resembled nightwear (and inadequate nightwear at that). These items, from what I could tell by brief examination of their gauzy fabric, had been designed for a person whose stature much resembled Miss Viola’s.
I climbed another flight of stairs and found myself in a study, the second most notable feature of which was the large array of journals, codices, papers, and memoranda that were piled upon its shelves and scattered across its floor. Its most notable feature, however, was the corpse. He lay pallid and lifeless upon the sofa, his clothing dishevelled and his throat, wrists, and chest marked with puncture wounds. Doubtless, this was the unfortunate Mr. Wangenheim, and though I was sorry for his fate, I had no wish to share it. I drew my pistol.
Out of nowhere, fingers closed upon my wrist, holding me with a gentleness that belied their unnatural strength. I turned my head and beheld a golden-haired gentleman with penetrating sapphire eyes and red, voluptuous lips.
“You will not need that here,” he said, his voice soft and touched with a Mircallan accent.
Some distant part of my mind felt strongly that I did, in fact, very much need my firearm. But, even so, my fingers opened, and the weapon fell unheeded to the ground. The blond gentleman smiled approvingly, though his teeth were too white and too sharp.
“Come, my brothers.” He drew my now empty hand to his mouth and subjected it to several liberties that, even these decades later, I blush to relate. “We have a new guest to entertain us.”
There was a flicker of movement by the window and I saw two more gentlemen, like the first, dark where he was fair but possessed of the same terrible lasciviousness. They lingered in the moonlight,their shirts unfastened to the sternum and their pale skin gleaming wantonly.
I hesitate to describe the perilous delights to which the vampiric gentlemen enticed me, but honesty forces me to disclose to my readers that the temptation towards acquiescence was considerable and exposed me to dangers both physical and spiritual. The blond gentleman, having initiated matters, drew me fully—and, I confess, unresistingly—into his embrace, though the nature of my attire, which accorded with my homeland’s strict standards of modesty, delayed his more intimate advances.
His brothers, if brothers they were, and I sincerely hoped they were not, for the attentions they paid one another went somewhat beyond the fraternal, insinuated themselves also about my person, one of them removing my collar with delicate fingers, the other caressing me in a manner utterly impossible to commit to print. As the four of us sank entwined to the carpet, and my world became nothing but soft kisses and cruel fangs, I felt very certain that I would die. But, under the seductive influence of the vampires, so darkly pleasurable was the notion that I welcomed it. Indeed, I encouraged it.
I was on the verge of losing consciousness entirely when the three gentlemen sprang away from me, hissing. Looking up blearily I beheld the unmistakable figure of the sorceress Shaharazad Haas. Her eyes seethed with white fire and, as I listened in horror, she spoke aloud the dread syllables of the private name of the Creator. My culture has many taboos, but there are few as absolute as that against the words Ms. Haas now uttered. Outsiders may presume that our habit of referring to the deity only indirectly and euphemistically is a simple matter of respect but, in actuality, invoking the Creator explicitly is not merely presumptuous but foolhardy. His power, if called upon correctly, sears body and soul alike and can easily overwhelm one who calls upon it with devastating consequence. To my relief, Ms. Haas stopped short of incanting the final syllable, which is known to only afew and unleashes the full curse of the Creator’s might. But even this fraction of His power had been sufficient to drive my erstwhile attackers cowering to the darkest corners of the room, their skin blackening and blistering.
“Why have you come?” snarled the fairer of the three. “There is nothing for you here.”
“I am the sorceress Shaharazad Haas. There is something for me everywhere.” My companion sauntered over to the sofa and took a seat beside the late Mr. Wangenheim. “For example, I have a personal interest in this gentleman you recently killed, that gentleman you were about to kill, and those papers—which I hope you haven’t disturbed too badly. Now do be good boys and slink back to your coffins.”
If they were inclined to protest, they thought better of it, scuttling from the study like beetles from an overturned log. I rose gradually, and somewhat abashedly, to my feet, acutely aware of the disordered state of my garments.
“Thank you,” I said. “I... That is to say... I...”
Ms. Haas cast me an amused look. “Mr. Wyndham, if you are really so keen to be brought to the unholy precipice of ecstatic oblivion by the comely spawn of primal darkness, I can direct you to at least a dozen highly regarded specialists who can arrange it for you in a safe, sane, and consensual manner.”
“Madam, I assure you I am not in the habit of consorting with such beings.”
“You should be.” Her gaze alighted on my loosened doublet. “It looks terribly good on you.”
“You have very much misunderstood my tastes. But this is not the time. The corpse, Ms. Haas, the corpse.”
“Well, he’s hardly going anywhere, is he?”
“It is a matter of respect for the dead.”
Her lips curled into a wicked smile. “My dear man, you wereabout toconsortwith the dead.” She did not say “consort.” “I’m not sure you’re in any position to be lecturing.”
“They were monsters driven by abominable lusts. He was a clerk.”
“Ah, so you respect the dead only if they are dreary.”
