The Vampire's Grave and Other Stories

  Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities, events or vampire attacks is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: June 2013

  This edition: August 2016

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  A convoy passes through a remote Eastern European checkpoint late at night, carrying a deadly cargo...

  A little girl discovers that something is living in the forest near her home. Something dangerous, but also wounded...

  A boat sets sail, but none of the crew-members will ever see land again...

  For hundreds of years, they were one of the most feared families in all the world. Then, with no warning, they vanished from history, leaving behind nothing but an abandoned castle and vague whispers of vampiricism. And now, they're back...

  From the discovery of a field full of mutilated corpses, to the resurrection of a powerful creature and his journey home, The Vampire's Grave is the story of a fearsome beast's lust for vengeance. Through a series of inter-connected short stories, the book follows Edgar LeCompte as he rises from the dead and sets out to find his long-lost sister Madeleine.

  The Vampire's Grave is a collection of short stories with a common theme. Each story reveals a little more about one of the most deadly vampire families that ever lived, leading to the final confrontation between a brother and sister who can no longer tolerate one another's existence.

  Table of Contents

  The Journey

  Death of a Vampire

  Resurrection

  The Empty Girl

  The Alderman's Dilemma

  Dark Voyage

  Change of Heart

  The Vampire's Grave part 1

  The Vampire's Grave part 2

  Epilogue

  The Vampire's Grave

  and Other Stories

  Author's Note

  The Vampire's Grave and Other Stories was originally intended as a prequel to the Dead Souls serial. However, Dead Souls went in a completely different direction, and The Vampire's Grave no longer fits in that story.

  Rather than changing the names of the characters in The Vampire's Grave, I've decided to leave them as they were. This book is therefore a kind of parallel universe story, one in which the lives of Edgar and Madeleine Le Compte went in very different directions.

  The Journey

  Prologue

  Having driven all night through a rainstorm, the truck was finally forced to stop just before dawn at a customs checkpoint on the border. A group of bored-looking, heavily-armed men emerged from a small shed and shone torches at the side of the vehicle, and finally one of the men wandered slowly to the driver's-side window and tapped on the glass. It had been almost a week since the last travelers had passed this way, and the customs team figured they might as well have a little fun, even if they had to get soaked in the process.

  "Papers," the official barked as soon as the window was wound down.

  "I'm from the Raftwood Museum of European Archeology in London!" the driver shouted back at him, his disgruntled voice barely audible over the rain. Glancing back along the side of the truck, he saw that the other officials were casually poking the tarpaulin and trying to shine their torches inside. “For God's sake, tell those idiots to be careful!”

  “I need to see your papers,” the official replied with a frown.

  "I was told I wouldn't have any trouble!"

  "I still need to see your papers," the official said flatly. "You show me your papers, and if everything checks out, you won't have any trouble."

  The rain continued to pour down as the driver leaned over to his glove-box. It took him a moment to sort through the piles of paperwork, but finally he retrieved a clipboard with a bunch of documents attached to the front. He muttered something under his breath as he held the clipboard up, hoping to keep it from getting soaked. Having spent the past month negotiating with various contacts in the Bulgarian government, he'd hoped that finally he might have a clear run out of the country. Now, however, he seemed to be at the mercy of a bunch of puffed-up provincial officials. With a sigh, he realized that he might be in for an argument.

  Taking the clipboard, the official wandered over to find a little shelter under the awning around the side of his shed. He leaned his back against the wall, pointedly displaying a complete lack of urgency.

  "I'm in a hurry!" the driver called out. "I have a flight to catch from Bucharest! I can't miss it!"

  "We're all in a hurry," the official said, setting the clipboard down on a small plastic table while he reached into his pockets and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "To our graves."

  He chuckled at his own joke.

  While his men continued to shine their torches into the back of the truck, the official started work on a new cigarette. Having been stationed at this back-of-beyond little checkpoint for several years now, the official had no patience when it came to busy westerners. They always wanted things done right away, whereas the official preferred to take his sweet time. In this small way, he figured he might keep from developing yet another ulcer.

  "You can't go in there!" the driver shouted, suddenly clambering out into the rain and hurrying around to push the men away from the rear doors. "Move! Shoo!"

  "Hey!" the official shouted, dropping the clipboard onto the dirty concrete and hurrying over to pull the driver back. "You keep your hands off my men, okay? They're not animals! They're only doing their jobs!" He took a drag on his cigarette, which was still burning despite the rain, and then he nodded at the truck door, lost in thought for a moment. "Open it up. I want to take a look."

  "It's very delicate cargo," the driver insisted, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. "You can't just go ripping the crates open, they're hermetically sealed to prevent atmospheric damage! The slightest disturbance could be catastrophic! It's all noted in the paperwork if you can just be bothered to read!"

  "I know what's in these boxes," the official replied, with a hint of grit in his voice. "Everyone here, we all know what you're transporting. We pay attention to the news, you understand? That's why I want to see them with my own eyes. You can either open one of the boxes here, or we can take it to Sofia and file the necessary paperwork, and then we'll impound your truck and bring in a team to do a full search." He waited for his words to sink in. "I don't make the rules," he added eventually, "I just follow them. To the letter. And I make sure other people follow them too. Even the British.” He smiled, revealing several false silver teeth. “Especially the British.”

  Sighing, the driver pushed past the men and began to undo the rear door. He hated the idea that these officious, bureaucratic men were going to slow him down, but he'd been in similar situations before and he knew that the best thing to do was just to cooperate. Arguing always made things worse, and he had no desire to get held up in this little Bulgarian backwater. He figured he just needed to give them a little Pyrrhic victory, and then they'd send him on his way.

  "How many are there?" the official asked, as his men shone their torches through the door. The interior of the truck contained a series of crates, each of which was carefully labeled. They all looked very ordinary and uncontroversial, which was somewhat surprising to the official since he knew what was inside. Although he considered himself to be a rational and level-headed man, he couldn't help but feel a little uneasy in the presence
of such things. It was as if the crates were staring right back at him. He almost made the sign of the cross across his chest. Almost.

  But what would be the point? The checkpoint was a long way from the nearest church.

  "There are fifteen," the driver muttered. "Fifteen crates, fifteen specimens."

  "And you're taking them out of Bulgaria?"

  "I'm taking them to London. We're going to study them and then we -"

  “Why don't you study them here in our country?”

  “The facilities in London,” the driver replied with a sigh, as if he was talking to a child, “are just a little more sophisticated than anything you have in your country.”

  "But you're going to send them back here when you're finished, aren't you?"

  "Send them back?"

  "I know about the British. You take things, you say you're going to study them and look after them, you talk the talk about being historians and conservationists, and then you keep them for yourselves. You put them in a museum and make money selling tickets. Tell me, if I want to see a part of my country's history, why do I have to go to London and pay for the privilege?"

  "We're not going to put them on display," the driver replied, sick and tired of the man's truculence.

  "What about the mummies from Egypt? You put those on display, didn't you? And the marbles from Greece. You Brits pilfer the treasures of the world."

  Sighing, the driver reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. He knew there was no point getting into an ethical debate, partly because he was aware that he didn't have a leg to stand on. Instead, he was going to try a different approach.

  "I have full clearance from the Ministry of -"

  "Yeah, yeah," the official replied, waving the paper away. "It's okay. I'm just joking with you. You understand a joke, don't you?"

  "What are these things?" one of the other men asked, reaching into the back of the truck and running his hand against the side of one of the crates.

  "Don't touch that!" the driver shouted, pushing the man away.

  "Hey!" the official shouted, grabbing the driver by the arm. "You don't touch us like that, okay? We're not dogs. It's a good question. Tell him what you've got here. Or are you too ashamed?"

  "It's not important," the driver said. "If you cause me to miss my flight, I'm going to register a complaint with your superiors. I'll make sure you're all fired. This is certified museum business and you -"

  "Vampires," the official said, taking another drag on his cigarette. "Fifteen vampires." He turned to his colleagues, and they exchanged nervous glances as the rain continued to pour down. "You hear what this man is doing? He's taking fifteen vampires on a little trip in the back of his lorry. How much of a lunatic must he be, eh?"

  The man laughed, while exchanging nervous laughs with one another.

  "They're just bodies from the sixteenth century," the driver explained with a sigh. "Victims of superstition, men and women like us. They're most certainly not vampires."

  "People thought they were vampires, though," the official continued. "They buried them... in a certain way."

  "People thought a lot of things back then," the driver said. "I'm with the Lawrence group. We found these bodies in a mass grave near Lovech, and we're going to take them to London so we can study the rituals that were used. Vampires have a major role in Eastern European mythology, and we're going to see if we can learn more about the beliefs that fueled these superstitious ideas. It's all perfectly legitimate work!"

  "And you think this is right?" the official asked. "Digging them up and flying them off to your museum? How would you feel if I did the same to your ancestors? How would you like it if I dug up your great-grandmother and drove her to Sofia to cut her open? And what if I put her on display in a museum? Would you like that?"

  "I have full clearance," the driver reiterated. "If you don't believe me, and if you don't accept my documents, then put a call through to the ministry. You'll soon find out that I'm telling the truth. I'm sure your bosses'll be thrilled to be woken at five in the morning and asked a question that could be answered just by looking at the bloody paperwork." He waited for an answer. "For God's sake, you know I have clearance! What are you waiting for, a bribe?"

  “Are you offering me a bribe?”

  “Are you waiting for one?”

  “Are you attempting to bribe a government official?”

  “I don't know. Do I need to?”

  “Do you?”

  The driver sighed. “What do you want from me? I'm trying to get the hell out of this country and catch my flight!”

  The official took another drag on his cigarette. "It's okay," he said eventually. "I believe you. I know it's true. All of it. I read about all this in the newspaper, so..." He stared into the darkness of the truck for a moment, watching the dark crates. "It's not my job to stop you. Your papers are in order. We just had to check, you understand? We needed to make sure you're not hiding anything else. Clearly you're not, though, so you're free to continue your journey. No bribe is necessary. We're honest people, like you."

  "Thank you," the driver continued, pushing the rear door shut. Hurrying back around to the cab door, his feet splashing in puddles that were getting deeper by the minute, he began to climb up into the front compartment, at which point he noticed that the customs men had all come to stare at him. Standing in the rain, they made for a strange and slightly unsettling sight, especially with machine guns slung over their shoulders. For the driver, it was almost as if he'd stepped back in time a few decades to a time when bureaucrats carried weapons and westerners were viewed with disdain in this part of the world.

  "You're a brave man," the official said eventually, as the driver pulled his door shut. "Driving alone through the night with fifteen dead vampires in the back of your truck, anything could happen. Are you not worried that while you're out on some lonely country road, you might start to hear a scratching sound coming from back there? Are you not bothered by the same superstitions that afflict us simple, old-fashioned folk?" Grinning, he took another drag from his cigarette.

  One of the other men muttered something under his breath, and his colleagues laughed.

  "They weren't vampires," the driver said with another exhausted sigh, as he started his engine. "They were ordinary people who were subjected to certain rituals after their deaths because the locals made a mistake. People had strange ideas back then. It was a superstitious time, and these ideas spread. You understand? I've written papers on it, for God's sake. It's all laid out in black and white. There's no such thing as vampires."

  "I hope you're right," the official said, standing back to let the truck go. "If you're wrong about even one of those bodies, you might come to regret it, if you know what I mean. Are you carrying a gun?"

  The driver shook his head, as one of the other men hurried over and passed the clipboard back to him.

  "Figures," the official said. "Wouldn't do much good anyway. I don't suppose a gun would be any use against a real vampire. Good job they don't exist, I guess." Reaching out, he stubbed his cigarette out on the side of the truck. "Go on, get on your way. I'd hate for you to miss your plane and then start blaming me for doing my job. After all, I'm just a simple peasant with simple beliefs, am I not? I can't afford to get fired." He paused. "The roads ahead are narrow and slippery, so you should be careful."

  "Thanks for the advice," the driver muttered.

  "I just hope you know what you're doing," the official said with a smile.

  Without saying another word, the driver accelerated away from the checkpoint. Within a couple of minutes, he'd disappeared into the night, leaving the customs workers to wander back into their shed. Once the others were safely inside, however, the official paused in the doorway for a moment. He wasn't a superstitious man, and he figured those fifteen bodies probably were just a bunch of random old bones, made more interesting by the strange manner in which they'd been buried. Still, the mere mention of vampires was enough
to unsettle him. After glancing around at the darkness for a moment, he turned, headed back into the shed and pushed the door shut.

  "That man will be dead within a week," he told his men as he slipped out of his rain-soaked coat. "Mark my words. There are fifteen bodies in his truck. All it takes is for one of them to wake up, and he doesn't stand a chance."

  One

  As usual, Dr. Andrew Marlowe timed his walk up from the museum's storage room to perfection. He stepped out of the door at precisely 22:01, which meant that he was at the foot of the stairs by 22:05 and halfway up by 22:06; by 22:07 he was emerging on the main landing of the east wing, which meant that he was passing the elevators at precisely 22:08, by which point everyone else should have left the building. Marlowe hated being interrupted by other people, so he tended to wait until closing time before getting started with his own work. More than anything, he enjoyed the sensation of being the only person working in the entire museum.

  All things considered, he was not a people person.

  Tonight, however, he was out of luck. As he reached the hallway at the top of the stairs, he saw a familiar face stepping out from one of the nearby offices.

  "We meet again," Dr. Amanda Carter said with a knowing smile, as she pressed the button for the elevator. "This is becoming a habit."

  "I was just down in the archive," Marlowe replied, holding up a rolled document that he'd grabbed on his way out, cursing his luck at the fact that he'd been interrupted.

  "You prefer working alone?"

  "I..." He paused, feeling a little embarrassed.

  "Where are your shoes?" she asked, looking down at his feet.