Vampire of the Mists Page 2

“I greet you,” he said, his voice sweet and full of music. The girl did not respond, only continued looking at him with huge, soft eyes. “My name is Jander,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “What’s yours? Where are you from?” Her lips moved then. Jander tensed, hoping, yet no sound issued forth. Disappointment filling him, he got to his feet. She still gazed up at him trustingly. Gods, so beautiful … Who could have sent her to this horrible place?

  “I wish I could take you out of here,” he told her sadly, “but I couldn’t look after you during the day.” He turned away from her. She gasped and reached out for him, her eyes filling with tears again.

  “Sir!” she sobbed, holding her arms up to him. Jander didn’t know what to do. Fully five centuries had passed since anything beautiful had deigned to touch him, and here was this tragically radiant girl reaching out for him. He hesitated, then sat down beside her and tentatively folded her into his arms.

  “Shh, shh,” he soothed, as if she were a child. He held her while she cried herself to sleep, then he laid her back down on her pallet. The vampire rose, careful not to disturb her, and then tended to his hunger elsewhere in the room.

  His heart was lighter than it had been for several long and empty years. Jander had found something beautiful in a hellish place, something that wasn’t afraid of him. It had to be nurtured. He knew he would be back tomorrow night.

  And so he was, bringing with him real food—meat from a traveler’s fire, bread, and fruit pilfered from a careless shop owner. Vampires made excellent thieves, Jander had discovered, although few of them needed to pursue such a profession.

  “Well again,” he greeted her. She stared up at him, then her lips curved in a cautious, fleeting smile. His heart turned over, and he smiled broadly in return. The elf sat down beside the woman and handed her the food. She stared at it, confused.

  “It’s food,” Jander explained. “You eat it.” He mimed putting the bread in his mouth. The girl still didn’t understand. Jander would have eaten a bite himself, just to show her, but he could no longer digest anything but blood. A scuffling at his back gave him an idea. An old woman was staring hungrily at the bread.

  “Watch,” he told the girl, and tore off a chunk of bread. The old woman grabbed at the offered food and chewed hungrily. The dark-haired girl smiled and nodded in comprehension. She rose with purpose and began handing out the food he had brought to the other inmates, glancing back at him with a happy smile.

  Jander had to laugh, even though he was annoyed. The girl needed food; she was positively emaciated. She shouldn’t be doling out what he had brought her.

  He bolted upright. The lovely madwoman moved among her fellow inmates with a deliberate sense of purpose, sharing her food with practiced grace. As though she had taken care of people before, Jander thought. He was by her side in an instant, turning her to face him.

  “Dear gods,” he whispered, “you weren’t born this way, were you?”

  She smiled serenely at him and continued with her task. He was shaken, filled with a sudden delirious hope. If she had been sane before, might she become sane again? Might he be able to bring her back from the brink of madness?

  One thing was certain. He had to try.

  Prior to meeting his “flower,” Jander had merely existed, going from night to night, taking nourishment from animal blood. He tended his night garden, finding comfort in working with the soil and watching things grow. Since he had become a vampire, he had lived as an outcast from all the things he had most loved when he was alive.

  But his undead state mattered not to the mysterious young woman in the asylum. She always seemed pleased to see him, even if she spoke in little more than fragments of words he did not recognize. Over the coming weeks, Jander finally succeeded in making her eat what he brought, and she began to gain weight.

  One night, toward the beginning of fall, they sat together. Suddenly she tensed, drawing away from his embrace, a worried frown on her lips. “What is it?” Jander asked.

  The girl seemed not to hear him. Abruptly she got to her feet, her attention still directed inward. Growing concerned, Jander reached up to tug gently on her dress.

  The girl screamed, sparking accompanying shrieks from the other inmates that built to a hellish crescendo. She began to wring her hands, every muscle in her thin body taut with what appeared to be sheer terror. Frantically the madwoman glanced about, as if seeking an escape. She moaned low, the cry of a trapped animal, and hurled herself against the wall, clawing at the rough stone with her fingers, then pounding the unyielding surface desperately.

  “No!” Jander cried. Swiftly he was by her side, pulling her away from her single-minded task. His strong golden hands closed tightly about her wrists. She struggled against him for a few moments, wailing piteously, then went limp against his chest. Bloody handprints dotted the stone wall, and a warm dampness trickled down onto his long fingers. She had cut her hands quite badly, and her palms and lower arms were sticky with blood.

  Jander licked his lips, his hunger whetted, his silver gaze held by the torchlight flickering on the redness. Then he dragged his eyes back to the girl’s. What he saw in their depths moved him.

  Something flickered, like a candle flame. It was so brief, he hardly believed he saw it, but there it was. A flash of sanity, clear and bright as the sun on water, came and went.

  “Oh, my little one,” Jander said brokenly, “what happened to you?”

  That was the first time he had seen her mysterious frenzy, but it was not the last. The contrast between the woman’s wretched state and the serenity she displayed most of the time pained the elf. She would be fine for several days, perhaps even weeks or months. Then, without warning, her inner calm would shatter, and she would again try to claw her way through the solid stone, desperately attempting to flee from some pursuing horror that existed only in her mad mind.

  Jander did what he could to protect her from her self-inflicted pain, pinning her arms behind her back or to her sides, occasionally holding her in a grip so tight no movement was possible. She would eventually quiet and become the tranquil flower she had been previously. After one such outburst, Jander held her as the tension ebbed from her body. He allowed himself to rest his head on her hair, content that she was no longer struggling. She pulled back a little and looked up at him, and her lips moved soundlessly. Jander tensed. She placed a hand to her heart and babbled a strange combination of sounds. He shook his head, not understanding. Again, a meaningless gibber and then, quite clearly she said, “Anna.”

  Jander was dumbfounded. “Is that your name? Anna?”

  She nodded, her eyes alert.

  “I’m Jander,” he said and was surprised at how keenly he wanted to hear his name on those sweet pink lips. Anna had again retreated into herself, however, and the dull glaze dimmed those wonderful eyes. There would be no more speech from her that night. The vampire was not distressed. There would be many nights to come in which he would, he was confident, win Anna’s trust and, he hoped, restore her sanity.

  Winter was hard on the inhabitants of the madhouse. Jander stole some blankets and tried to keep Anna as warm as he could. He wished he could simply leave the warm woolens with her, but the guards would notice and grow suspicious as to their origins. It wasn’t until spring that he won his next victory.

  Jander had materialized in the cell just after twilight had bled to black. His garden was in full bloom, and he had collected a small bouquet for Anna. Perhaps they would win from her that radiant smile he had glimpsed a few times before. It was only after the mist congealed into his slender form that she recognized him, smiling a welcome that lit up her face and made her look sane again. She reached up to him, like a child to a beloved parent who has been too long away.

  He placed the fragrant gift in her arms. “For you, my dear,” he said, his silky voice filled with gentleness.

  Anna buried her face in the flowers, then raised her large, soft eyes to his. “Sir!” she cried happily, tossing the f
lowers to the stone floor and hugging him tightly.

  Joyously he returned her embrace. As he held her affectionately, he gradually became aware that his feelings for her had changed. Until that moment, he had thought of her as a wounded young forest animal, in need of gentleness and care. He had attended to her so, denying the truth that now rushed to be revealed. Whether he wished it so or not, Jander was deeply in love.

  As if she somehow sensed the change in the elf, Anna clasped him closer still, one small hand gently playing with the soft gold hair at the back of his neck. Emotions that had hitherto been as dead as his body suddenly flared to new life. Passion mixed sharply with the thirst of a vampire; the scent of her blood was overwhelming. Jander yielded to all his emotions and, with a groan, kissed Anna’s throat, his fangs emerging quickly and purposefully. Yet he was gentle as his sharp teeth pierced the white flesh of her neck; his was the embrace of a lover, not a predator. And if she gasped a little with the first quick pangs, she did not pull away.

  Jander was about to materialize in the asylum when the voices reached his ears. He flattened himself against the door, a blue and gray shadow, and listened intently to the voices within.

  “Such a pretty thing,” came one, gentle and warm.

  “Aye, indeed,” the second agreed. Jander recognized the voice of one of the guards. “Been that way for over a hunnert years. Me grandfather used t’work here, and she ain’t changed since then.”

  “Really? Oh, poor child. Look! I think she understands me!”

  “Ah, she’s just foolin’ ye. She don’t understand nothing. Ain’t for a hunnert years.”

  “Yes, you said so.” The voice was significantly cooler than before. Jander grinned to himself. Any champion of Anna’s was a friend of his. He shifted his position and placed one pointed ear to the stone.

  What the guard said disturbed him. Had she really been trapped here, unchanging, for over a century? Mentally he ticked off the seasons. Time was nothing to a vampire, but he was shocked when he determined that he had been visiting Anna for over a decade.

  The kind voice continued. “Lathander is the god of hope, and hope comes fresh every day with the dawn. Don’t forget that, my son. What caused the woman’s suffering?”

  “We think it’s a spell, sir. Don’t nobody stay that way that long without it being caused by some kind o’ magic.”

  Jander tensed, his hands reflexively balling into fists. Magic! That would explain a great deal. He fought to quell the anger that welled up inside him at the mention of the arcane arts.

  The elven vampire hated magic. Once, it had been part of his very nature. He still had a bit of elven magic at his control; his skill with the soil was only a minor example. Over the years, however, magic had failed to aid him in truly important matters. He did not trust it even in good hands, and to hear that Anna had probably been the focus of some evil spell enraged him. He deliberately forced himself to be calm and listen.

  “Has anyone tried to remove the spell?”

  “Nope. She’s got no family, no one to pay for it.”

  Jander chewed his lower lip nervously. If the cleric of Lathander tried to free Anna from the magic that had kept her alive all these years, he might very well kill her. Apparently the priest had the same thought. “I would try, but I’m afraid to. It could be dangerous.”

  The guard laughed, a harsh, nasal sound. “What kind of a life has she got? Dead might be better.”

  Jander’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Perhaps,” came the voice of the priest, definitely icy, “if you took better care of your wards, this place might not be the sewer it is. I shall speak to your superior.”

  The vampire heard the sound of the cell door opening and melted back into the shadows. He watched as the priest of Lathander strode out, inhaling the fresh air gratefully. The human was young, only in his mid-thirties or so, and bore himself with a quiet grace. He wore his brown hair long, and his robes, though beautifully colored in shades of gold and pink, were simple. From his bearing and what he had said in the asylum, the priest ranked high in Jander’s eyes. Besides, the elf had always favored the teachings of Lathander “Morninglord,” the gold-skinned god of dawn and beginnings—at least, he had favored them up until the great darkness had fallen upon him, barring the dawn from his sight forever.

  Once the guard had resumed his position outside the women’s ward, Jander transformed into a mist and crept inside. He went to Anna at once, gathering her in his arms and holding her tightly.

  “Magic. Magic has done this to you. Oh, Anna.” Suddenly overwhelmed by his empathy for her plight, he placed his hands on either side of her face and kissed her deeply—and started back in surprised pain, one golden hand reaching to touch his smarting, bitten lip.

  Anna, caught up in her frenzy, screamed and pounded the walls. As always, Jander was beside her, calming her. When the moment had passed and she looked at him, her eyes were full of remorse. Jander embraced her tentatively, relieved, gently bridging the rift that he had unconsciously caused.

  He did not ever try to kiss her again. Somehow, that token of affection triggered something in her mad mind.

  “Who did this to you, my love?” he whispered, holding her tenderly, not expecting a response.

  “Barovia,” she said, surprising him.

  Barovia. The word sat oddly on the vampire’s tongue as he repeated it. Was it a person’s name, or that of a place, a word in her strange language for an action or idea? He had no way of knowing. All he knew was that something or someone connected with the word “Barovia” was responsible for Anna’s present condition.

  He would find out what … or who.

  DAYS AND NIGHTS RAN THEIR COURSE IN WATERDEEP. Another year passed, and another, but time meant nothing to the undead creature and the ensorcelled madwoman. A little progress was made, but not much. Jander, however, had the patience of the dead and took comfort in each tiny victory.

  It was in midwinter, nearly four decades after the elf had first met Anna, that time began to run out.

  He appeared in the cell as soon as night had embraced the land, carrying food and blankets. Anna lay huddled in a corner and did not greet him with her customary warm smile.

  “Anna?” She did not move at the sound of his voice. Suddenly frightened, Jander rushed to her and stroked her hair gently with his hand. “Anna, my dear, what is it?” Carefully he turned her over, and his heart sank. “Oh, gods,” he breathed. Anna’s face, usually pale from lack of exposure to the sun, was flushed. He felt her forehead, noting with alarm its burning heat and dryness. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her eyes were unnaturally bright.

  Jander felt the icy hand of panic close about his insides. It had been so long since he had struggled against an illness that he had almost forgotten what to do. A fever. How did one tend a fever? The vampire began to tremble. Angrily Jander forced himself to remain calm. He wrapped his beloved in a blanket and held her through the night as she shivered and moaned. The fever did not break.

  For the next four days he tended her thus, forcing water down her throat and talking to her until his own throat was dry. The weight she had gained through his care melted off her, but still her fever did not break.

  Jander reached a decision. All his love would not be enough to cure her. He had to find someone who had medical skills. Clearly the keepers of the asylum didn’t even care enough to try to heal one ill lunatic. Jander hoped he knew someone who would.

  He strode down the deserted streets of Waterdeep, not bothering to keep to the shadows this time. He passed through the seamy dock area and entered the more refined Castle Ward. The human population was increasing, and the city had grown considerably since Jander was last in that area. Some of the new buildings confused him momentarily, but at last he found what he was looking for.

  The Spires of the Morning was still an attractive building. Brand new when Jander had been here a hundred or so years before, it was a little weather-beaten by time, but not much. The build
ing was made of stone, but the door was wooden, painstakingly carved with a representation of Lathander Morninglord. The god was depicted as a beautiful young man dressed in flowing robes with the sun rising behind him. Jander hesitated, then knocked urgently.

  No one answered. Impatiently he pounded on the ornate wooden door again. Above him, someone opened the shutters and peered down at him. Jander couldn’t see the speaker, but his voice was full of sleepy amusement.

  “No need to break the door down, my friend. It is open to all who would enter. Come in!”

  There was no way that Jander could enter a holy house, even if he had been invited. “I cannot,” Jander called up. “My message is too urgent. There is a sickness in the asylum. Will you come?”

  The priest did not hesitate. “Of course. Give me just a—” Jander had already gone, running swiftly back to the madhouse. The priest arrived within a half hour with a variety of herbs and holy symbols. Jander recognized him as the young priest he had overheard talking with the guard thirty years earlier. He was in his early sixties, but still handsome. His hair was white, but as long and thick as the elf remembered, and though his face was lined, it was filled with concern and kindness.

  Jander let him inside. “Over there,” he told the pink robed cleric. “In the corner. She’s got a fever.”

  The white-haired priest knelt beside the girl and began to examine her gently. The lines about his brown eyes deepened. “How long has she been like this?”

  “Four days.”

  “Why wasn’t I called in earlier?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The cleric shot him a fierce look. “You’re one of the guards, you ought to have—”

  “No, I’m not, I’m just … a friend. Can you help her?”

  The priest seemed about to say something more, but the look on Jander’s worried features stopped him. “I’ll try, my son.”

  The hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. The priest prayed and chanted, administered herbs, and bathed the unconscious girl with holy water, but all to no avail. At last, looking tired and haggard, he shook his head and began to pack up his things. “I am truly sorry. She is in the hands of the gods. I have done all I can.”