that what he'd been yelling at her had,
in fact, been a warning. That he'd been trying, goddammit, to save her from breaking her neck. Running too fast and with nothing to grab hold of, Claudia pitched forwards into nothingness.
Nosferatu, huh?
The reflection staring back from the mirror couldn't decide whether to be pleased or insulted at this allusion to Histria's shuffling demon of the night, the bastard son of a bastard son who was supposed to drink human blood and feast off the warm, dripping flesh of his victims.
Insulted, because the figure in the mirror was no ghoul, no monster, no killer for pleasure, and the suggestion of having an oversized head, long curved claws and a fat, lolling tongue could not be further removed from the well-groomed figure reflected in the flickering lamplight. Ogre indeed!
All the same . . .
Where better to hide than under the umbrella of a mythical monster? In which case, could any description be more pleasing?
The reflection turned this way then that, admiring what it saw, until, satisfied with the result from every angle, it smiled. Very well. Nosferatu it is!
But what to do about the little witness, that was the question. By all accounts, the child hadn't actually seen the ghoul, only its shadow, where a full moon would account for the physical distortions that she'd seen played out on the wall. That, and a child's overactive imagination!
'Nosferatu' paced the room - up and down, up and down - then finally came to a decision. The girl could be safely left to her demons. Superstitious though the islanders were, no one believed her when she said she'd seen Nosferatu, not even her mother, and since no evidence of slaughter was left behind, it was probably wise to leave well alone and not start tempting providence at this stage.
The plan was going well and according to schedule. Let it be. Right now, there were more pressing matters to deal with.
Nosferatu picked up the blade from the table, tested its edge, then slipped the knife back in its sheath. The dagger was carried for protection, not harm. For tonight's work, Nosferatu needed a noose.
Eight
Through an explosion of fireballs, Claudia was distantly aware of being asked to count fingers. Since the fingers that were being held up were dancing like fireflies, she could not see the point and closed her eyes again.
The next time she awoke, it was to an orchestra of tone-deaf percussionists and she could smell comfrey and catnip, elder and borage, and thought, dear me, some poor soul must have an awful lot of bruises to warrant that lot, but then something warm and scented was sloshed down her throat and she promptly lapsed back into unconsciousness.
She dreamed.
She dreamed the Nymphs of the West were singing lullabies to her in the Gardens of the Hesperides, watched over by Night and the Evening Star. The walls of the garden were made from blocks of pure, white, limestone that kept making her sneeze, but then Atlas came along and laid a cool compress over her forehead and everything in the garden was lovely. Atlas was younger than she'd imagined, with an aureole of glossy dark curls framing his face, but she supposed old men couldn't be expected to hold up the universe, and it was kind of him to use the waters of purity to wash her face, though she hadn't expected purity to smell quite so like hyssop.
Atlas left. Darkness closed over the garden. Juno's golden apples glinted on their tree in the moonlight, and Claudia halfexpected to see Hercules sneak in any moment and steal a few for his penultimate labour. She was not disappointed. In he strode, but he was accompanied by Diana of the Hunt, who
plucked an arrow from the quiver on her back and fired it over the wall. But this Diana was no virgin goddess. She straddled her muscular thighs over Hercules as he sat, took his impossibly handsome face in both hands and pressed her lips hard to his.
The lullabies faded. Ladon, the hundred-headed dragon set by Juno to guard her
in fact, been a warning. That he'd been trying, goddammit, to save her from breaking her neck. Running too fast and with nothing to grab hold of, Claudia pitched forwards into nothingness.
Nosferatu, huh?
The reflection staring back from the mirror couldn't decide whether to be pleased or insulted at this allusion to Histria's shuffling demon of the night, the bastard son of a bastard son who was supposed to drink human blood and feast off the warm, dripping flesh of his victims.
Insulted, because the figure in the mirror was no ghoul, no monster, no killer for pleasure, and the suggestion of having an oversized head, long curved claws and a fat, lolling tongue could not be further removed from the well-groomed figure reflected in the flickering lamplight. Ogre indeed!
All the same . . .
Where better to hide than under the umbrella of a mythical monster? In which case, could any description be more pleasing?
The reflection turned this way then that, admiring what it saw, until, satisfied with the result from every angle, it smiled. Very well. Nosferatu it is!
But what to do about the little witness, that was the question. By all accounts, the child hadn't actually seen the ghoul, only its shadow, where a full moon would account for the physical distortions that she'd seen played out on the wall. That, and a child's overactive imagination!
'Nosferatu' paced the room - up and down, up and down - then finally came to a decision. The girl could be safely left to her demons. Superstitious though the islanders were, no one believed her when she said she'd seen Nosferatu, not even her mother, and since no evidence of slaughter was left behind, it was probably wise to leave well alone and not start tempting providence at this stage.
The plan was going well and according to schedule. Let it be. Right now, there were more pressing matters to deal with.
Nosferatu picked up the blade from the table, tested its edge, then slipped the knife back in its sheath. The dagger was carried for protection, not harm. For tonight's work, Nosferatu needed a noose.
Eight
Through an explosion of fireballs, Claudia was distantly aware of being asked to count fingers. Since the fingers that were being held up were dancing like fireflies, she could not see the point and closed her eyes again.
The next time she awoke, it was to an orchestra of tone-deaf percussionists and she could smell comfrey and catnip, elder and borage, and thought, dear me, some poor soul must have an awful lot of bruises to warrant that lot, but then something warm and scented was sloshed down her throat and she promptly lapsed back into unconsciousness.
She dreamed.
She dreamed the Nymphs of the West were singing lullabies to her in the Gardens of the Hesperides, watched over by Night and the Evening Star. The walls of the garden were made from blocks of pure, white, limestone that kept making her sneeze, but then Atlas came along and laid a cool compress over her forehead and everything in the garden was lovely. Atlas was younger than she'd imagined, with an aureole of glossy dark curls framing his face, but she supposed old men couldn't be expected to hold up the universe, and it was kind of him to use the waters of purity to wash her face, though she hadn't expected purity to smell quite so like hyssop.
Atlas left. Darkness closed over the garden. Juno's golden apples glinted on their tree in the moonlight, and Claudia halfexpected to see Hercules sneak in any moment and steal a few for his penultimate labour. She was not disappointed. In he strode, but he was accompanied by Diana of the Hunt, who
plucked an arrow from the quiver on her back and fired it over the wall. But this Diana was no virgin goddess. She straddled her muscular thighs over Hercules as he sat, took his impossibly handsome face in both hands and pressed her lips hard to his.
The lullabies faded. Ladon, the hundred-headed dragon set by Juno to guard her
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