Blood Loss: A Vampire Story Read online

  Blood Loss

  A Vampire Story

  Andy Maslen

  For the family.

  Translation of the image text (from Old German). Here begins a very cruel frightening story about a wild bloodthirsty man Prince Dracula. How he impaled people and roasted them and boiled their heads in a kettle.

  “There was a deliberate voluptuousness that was both thrilling and repulsive. Lower and lower went her head. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited.”

  Bram Stoker, Dracula

  “I felt a stinging pain as if two large needles darted, an inch or two apart, deep into my breast. I waked with a scream.”

  J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

  Contents

  Frontispiece

  1. Hunt book of Lily Bax, 24th August 2010

  2. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 25th August 2010

  3. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 26th August 2010

  4. Emails from David Harker to Caroline Murray, 17th September - 9th October 2010

  5. [draft post] Ramblings of a free-revving mind – David Harker’s blog, 9th October 2010

  6. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 10th October 2010

  7. Emails between Caroline Murray and Peta Velds, 10th October 2010

  8. Caroline Murray’s Journal 11th October 2010

  9. Minutes of meeting between Peta Velds and Caroline Murray LLD (taken by J.S. Le Fanu, General Counsel, Velds Industries) 11th October 2010

  10. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 12th October 2010

  11. Diary of an actress: the life of Lucinda Easterbrook, 12th October 2010

  12. [draft post] Ramblings of a free-revving mind – David Harker’s blog, 12th October 2010

  13. Police Report, Reporting officer PC H. Singh, 5643, Pimlico PS, Met. Police, 3.17 a.m. 14th October 2010

  14. London Ambulance Service NHS Trust, Patient Transfer Report, 15th October 2010

  15. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 16th October 2010

  16. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 17th October 2010

  17. Caroline Murray’ Journal, 18th October 2010, recorded on my phone and transcribed later

  18. Diary of an Actress: the Life of Lucinda Easterbrook, 20th October 2010

  19. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 28th October 2010

  20. Diary of an Actress: the Life of Lucinda Easterbrook, 29th October 2010

  21. Hunt Book of Lily Bax, 30th October 2010

  22. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 30th October 2010

  23. Texts Between Peta Velds and Lucinda Easterbrook, 31st October 2010

  24. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 1st November 2010

  25. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 2nd November 2010

  26. New York Times website, 7th November 2010

  27. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 7th November 2010

  28. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 10th November 2010

  29. Website of the Judy and Brian Shapiro Foundation for Skin Cancer Research, 11th November 2010

  30. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 11th November 2010

  31. Facebook message from Lucinda Easterbrook to Peta Velds, 12th November 2010

  32. Email from David Harker to Caroline Murray, 13th November 2010

  33. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 14th November 2010

  34. Hunt Book of Shimon Gregorius, 16th November 2010

  35. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 17th November 2010

  36. Emails between Peta Velds and Lucinda Easterbrook, 18th November 2010

  37. [draft post] Ramblings of a free-revving mind – David Harker’s blog, 20th November 2010

  38. Caroline Murray’s Journal, 21st/22nd November 2010

  39. [draft post] Ramblings of a free-revving mind – David Harker’s blog, 23rd November 2010

  40. Caroline Murray’s journal, 23rd November 2010

  41. Hunt book of Ariane Van Helsing, 1st January 2011

  42. Caroline Harker’s journal, 3rd January 2011

  43. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 4th January 2011

  44. Text from Caroline Harker (posing as Lucinda Easterbrook) to Peta Velds, 5th January 2011

  45. Hunt book of Ariane Van Helsing, 5th January 2011

  46. Caroline Harker’s journal, 7th January 2011

  47. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 8th January 2011

  48. Talk of the Town, the New Yorker, 21st March 2011

  49. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 19th April 2011

  50. Caroline Harker’s Journal, 23rd May 2011

  51. NYPD Incident Report. Reporting officer A. GUZMAN 05/24/2011

  52. Morgan Hearst’s Journal, 25th May 2011

  53. Tasting Menu – Banquet in Honor of Peta Velds, draft submitted by Cushing Caterers, 26th May 2011

  54. Morgan Hearst’s Journal, 26th May 2011

  55. Email from Peta Velds to Lucy Easterbrook, 27th May 2011

  56. Caroline Harker’s Journal, 28th May 2011

  57. Till Receipt from Pitt’s Hardware, NY, 29TH JUNE 2011

  58. Caroline Harker’s Journal 1st June 2011

  59. Notebook of ESU Captain Jerome Stensgaard, 06/01/11

  60. Email From Lily Bax to Ariane Van Helsing, 2nd June 2011

  61. Caroline Harker’s Journal, 3rd June 2011

  62. Email From Ariane Van Helsing to Lily Bax, 3rd June 2011

  63. Peta’s Speech for Welcome Banquet. Draft dated 4th June 2011

  64. Caroline Harker’s Journal, 5th June 2011

  65. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 6th June 2011

  66. Hunt Book of Caroline Harker, 6th June 2011

  67. Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 7th July 2011

  68. Private Notes of Ben Schrader MRC Psych – for possible book – 22nd August 2012

  69. BBC News Website 23rd August 2012

  70. Hunt Book of Caroline Harker 24th August 2012

  71. Draft paper for submission to Nature magazine, 13th May 2018, Author: Ariane Van Helsing

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Andy Maslen

  Want to know more?

  1

  Hunt book of Lily Bax, 24th August 2010

  I followed the female along Shaftesbury Avenue and then into the warren of narrow streets that makes Soho such a good hunting ground for the O-One, as they call themselves. She was wearing a soft red biker jacket over black clothes and left a scent-trail in her wake – the usual musky stink, though overlaid this time with expensive perfume. Her heels clicked on the pavement; she had a long, easy stride. I lost her in a knot of tourists then saw her turn down a dingy side street – little more than an alley, really – where she found her victim, a boy, maybe 14 or 15. She leant down to him and I could see a bank note in between her fingers. Her nails were long, and red, of course. I crept closer, keeping downwind, even though her stench was rank, and slipped into a doorway, dark except for a dull blue lamp above the porch.

  The lamia leaned in closer to the boy, until her lips brushed the edge of his ear.

  “You don’t have to sleep outside tonight,” she said. “Come home with me. I’ll feed you. You’ll have a bed of your own.”

  The scrawny mutt lying next to the boy on the layered sheets of cardboard scrambled to its feet as she approached. It stood now, stiff-legged, hackles bristling, ears flat against its skull, growling way back in its throat.

  The boy tried to quieten it.

  “Hush, Coco. The lady means no harm. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into him. I think he’s trying to protect me,” he said.

  “That’s perfectly all right,” the lamia said. She leaned towards the dog and hissed a command. “Lie down.”

  The dog complied, whimperin
g, its bony tail tucked so far between its legs it protruded forward from under its thigh.

  “You can leave him with a friend just for one night, can’t you?” she asked him.

  “I don’t have any friends. Not round here. I only got here a couple of days ago.”

  She smiled, her lips stretching wide. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “Leave him here. Now, up you get.”

  She held out a hand, the banknote no longer gripped between her fingers. He reached out and she pulled him easily to his feet.

  “You’re tall,” he said. He was average height, but the lamia towered above him.

  “Just my heels,” she said. But that wasn’t it. Even without the shoes, she would have been three or four inches taller than him.

  I stepped out from the doorway and pulled my knife from its sheath. It is an old, old weapon; the curving patterns in the blade remind me of oil swirling on water. The blade, honed to a razor-edge, was coated in salcie usturoi – the old remedy we cutters have always used against the lamia: a concentrated distillation of salicylic acid from the willow tree and wild garlic oil. The whisper of steel against leather was quiet but the lamia heard it and whirled around, letting the boy’s hand drop. He stumbled back against the wall and sat down, thin pale arms wrapped around the dog’s ribs.

  Seeing me, she opened her mouth wide and exposed her fangs: long, needle-like teeth dripping with that disgusting liquid they secrete before feeding. She hissed and sprang, claws reaching for my neck. But she was new to the ways of the cutters – a recent convert, I guessed. I moved quickly, lunging inside her grasping arms, surprising her; their victims are usually either paralysed with fear or running for their lives. A fast upwards stab with my knife under the ribs and into her heart. Then I stepped back out of reach and watched. I like to see the realisation in their faces before they go.

  The lamia clutched at her bleeding chest, hand snaking inside the bloody rent in the jacket. Her eyes were blood-filled and her mouth was stretched so wide I could see the puffy red throat tissue. Then the salcie usturoi worked its way fully into the creature’s circulation. She emitted a thin scream as every blood cell, vessel and chamber of her black heart exploded. The boy gasped and flinched as the tide of blood soaked him and his dog. I cleansed the blade carefully on the cloth I keep for the purpose and resheathed it. I walked quickly to him and told him to find somewhere to clean himself up. Then I left. It does not do to remain at the killing ground for too long. This was one of the daughters of Peta Velds, and I knew she would sense the destruction.

  2

  Caroline Murray’s Journal, 25th August 2010

  I’d been in about 30 minutes, hadn’t changed – there didn’t seem much point – when the knocker clacked loudly against the front door. Which is odd, because nobody ever uses it. Our friends call from the doorstep and tradesmen ring the bell. If I’d known what the woman standing on the other side of the door was going to drag me into, I would never have invited her in.

  I put the chain across and opened the door, peering through the little gap. The woman standing on the doorstep was dressed oddly, even for our Bohemian part of London. Her outfit consisted mostly of leather. Black and a deep, mossy green. She looked like a bike messenger. Or, rather, she would have looked like a bike messenger had it not been for the exquisite cross-lacing and stitching all over the fitted jacket. I was half-expecting her to offer me a flyer for a fetish club when she spoke.

  “Caroline? Please let me in. I need to talk to you about David.”

  “Sorry? You are?”

  “I will tell you inside. Please,” she said. “You must let me in. I have been watching David. He has made a terrible mistake.”

  So I let her in. Simple as that. She was shorter than me and slightly built. I felt confident. I was still somehow managing to do one Thai boxing class a week. God knows how, but it was my only escape from work. I mean, apart from David, obviously.

  We went through to the sitting room. She watched me drinking and actually licked her lips. They were very red. Suddenly I realised she was waiting for me to offer her a glass.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Where are my manners. Would you like a glass? It’s nothing special, I’m afraid.”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  She accepted the glass I poured her and drained it. Then held it out straight-armed in front of her for a refill. The girl could drink, I gave her that. I refilled her glass, and mine, since I had a funny feeling she’d keep asking for refills till the bottle was gone.

  “So, your name?” I said, again.

  “Ariane. Listen to me: what I have to tell you will sound very strange. I dare say you will be seized with an urge to throw me out, but resist it: David has ventured into very dangerous territory. This will be shocking to you, so why don’t you just listen while I tell you a story. Save your questions for the end. How would that be?”

  I nodded, dumbly.

  “So. I will tell you my tale and if, at the end, you wish me to leave, then I will leave. But you’d better resign yourself to never seeing David again. Let’s see now, what is the best way to tell you this story, given that I feel sure you will initially doubt its veracity, if not my sanity.

  “Caroline, you are familiar, I think, with the theory of evolution? Spontaneous mutations that confer a small survival advantage become embedded in a species’ DNA through the process known as natural selection. A bird with a longer beak can eat difficult-to-reach insects and is able to survive for longer and breed more often. A monkey with a displaced thumb finds it can grip twigs to use as tools. A predator develops a taste for a food source no other predator touches – it has a niche it can exploit to grow strong and numerous.”

  “Yes, I know about Darwin,” I said. “But you said you had news of David. What is it?”

  “He has been talking to a very dangerous woman. A woman who has the power to destroy him utterly, and you alongside him. You must prevent him working for her.”

  “What on Earth are you talking about? He has a perfectly good job already – with a charity. He’s a scientist – he doesn’t have conversations with dangerous women – or men, for that matter. The most dangerous person he ever comes into contact with is the woman who issues replacement ID badges.”

  She tutted impatiently, like one of those awful businessmen-turned-magistrates.

  “You have heard of the one percent? The super-rich? The global citizens?”

  I nodded again.

  “There is a group within the one percent. About one in a hundred, in fact. They have evolved. They belong to a different species. They are all members of seven very old families. They run corporations now. In Manhattan, Moscow, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Beijing, Sao Paulo and London. They are the ultimate non-domiciles. For centuries, they have been accumulating wealth and power. But their food sources are becoming harder to access. They used to feed out in the nowhere regions of the world – in India, Africa, Latin America, the Chinese interior, the eastern Russian republics. But now that everybody has a smartphone, it’s getting harder for them to operate below the radar. So they’re looking closer to home. In fact, they’re preying on the people who don’t have a home. Street people, addicts, prostitutes, vagrants, runaways: all those who have fallen through the net. The police don’t care, the public don’t see them, the tourist authorities wish them gone. And the O-One have free reign to hunt at night.”

  “I’m sorry. But what are you talking about? What species? And what do you mean prey and hunt? And did you say the O-One?”

  “One percent of one percent, Caroline – it’s what they call themselves. Like in maths, you know? Point zero one percent. They prey on humans.”

  “But they are humans. You said they were the super-rich. I know not everyone likes or admires them, but they’re actually not a different species. Look, would you please just come out and say whatever it is you came here to say and then I think you’d better leave.”

  “Very well. Have you heard of Peta Velds
?”

  “Of course. Came from nowhere. Youngest female CEO in the history of ever. Runs a massive global company, listed on the London and New York Stock Exchanges.”

  “Very good. So, Velds Industries are starting to look at the link between solar radiation and cell mutation. She has asked David to go to work for her. Do you know what he is working on now?”

  “Of course I do. David is searching for the precise mechanism by which solar radiation causes melanoma – that’s skin cancer. And he’s brilliant,” I said. Why did I feel so defensive with this woman? “He’s a genius. If anyone can find that link David can.”

  “Caroline, I know he is brilliant. And so does Velds. But she does not hire him to cure cancer. She has her eye on another cellular mutation altogether.”