Don Juan Perez de Silva is the youngest vampire in Ireland, clocking in at the tender age of just six hundred years and change.
He first appears in the history books during the Reconquista, helping to take back Spain from its Moorish rulers in the late fifteenth century, when he distinguished himself in a series of battles. He was still human at the time, and the wounds he suffered in the Siege of Málaga almost ended his life. It is said - at least, it is said by him - that the King rewarded his service with the gift of immortality. His Sire was a member of the Spanish Royal Court, which de Silva joined as a vampire.
But asking two vampires to share a court is like asking two roosters to share a sack, and a century later de Silva left Spain below decks on the Falcon Blanco, which sailed alongside more than a hundred other ships bound for Flanders.
We all know how the Spanish Armada ended, and so as the Falcon Blanco limped into Galway Harbor, de Silva was making landfall on Inis Mór. He’s lived there ever since, supposedly happy living in caves on the windward side of the island and sustaining himself on seals and other wild animals.
As I considered his claws and general demeanour, I realised the phrase, “you are what you eat” was never so appropriate.
We made good time and were first to arrive at the Magistrate’s estate. As the cars pulled around the circular driveway, Sir Arthur stepped out to greet us. He waited under the portico with a shorter balding man while we disembarked the SUVs.
“My friend! My brother!” exclaimed de Silva with a loud laugh as he approached the Magistrate with arms spread wide.
Sir Arthur’s mouth twitched slightly at the word “brother”, but he replaced the grimace with a tight smile and accepted the hug and a kiss on each cheek with good humour.
“I bid you welcome to my home,” he said, bowing slightly. “In accordance with the First Laws, what is mine is yours. This is Mister Woods.” The shorter man bowed as well, though awkwardly, as Sir Arthur continued,” he is my caretaker here. He has laid out a bungalow for you, near the main house. If you have any bags…”
Silva waggled his empty hands, Jazz style, and laughed again. “I travel with just my boots and my wits.” Then he looked around warily and asked, “His Excellency has arrived?”
“Not yet,” said Sir Arthur. “You will take part in the Greeting?”
“Of course,” said de Silva, and he turned to stand by Sir Arthur, facing out towards the drive. As an afterthought, he shrugged out of his heavy coat and threw it to me. “Here, big quiet one, take this. Put it in my room.”
As I walked towards the bungalow set aside for Don Juan Perez, I heard him ask the Magistrate if I was “his troll”. I tightened my grip on his jacket and quickened my pace.
It was strange to think that, most of the year, the Magistrate’s estate was open to the public as an idyllic country getaway. You could book a spa weekend here, or even get married on the south lawn. The happy couples who tied the knot here would probably demand a refund if they knew the house’s history, or the purpose its owner put it to every ten years. But, then again, that same history would probably attract an entirely new clientele.
It was dark inside the bungalow, but I knew its layout from preparing it earlier in the week. A short hallway led between the living room on the right and a small kitchen on the left, to the bathroom and sole bedroom at the back of the house.
Inside the bedroom, the bed had been removed and replaced with a large wooden crate. Not a coffin, and inside would be cushions and blankets instead of dirt from his home country, but every extra layer between a vampire and the daytime sun was welcomed. I quickly checked behind the curtain to ensure the window was still blocked. We had carefully nailed three large plywood sheets over it that afternoon. Apparently not carefully enough, because someone else - the Magistrate, perhaps? - had come along in the meantime and covered the edges and joins where the wood panels met with several layers of metallic duct tape.
I hung de Silva’s jacket in the large wardrobe next to the door and returned to the drive. Our SUVs had pulled away and the Magistrate and Don Juan Perez stood side by side, waiting for our next guest. The Magistrate was the picture of dignified solemnity in a deep blue smoking jacket. De Silva’s sweater had the sleeves rolled up to threadbare elbows, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets as he idly kicked pieces of invasive gravel from the portico back onto the drive. Murtagh and his people spread out in two lines either side, like an honor guard, or like two soccer teams waiting for a national anthem to end.
“Ah, Mister Troll,” said de Silva as I returned and stood behind them, next to Woods, “I trust everything is in order? There is a chocolate on my pillow?”
“Mister Grey,” I corrected. “And I didn’t check inside. Though everything looked right. Big box full of straw, like I used to make for my tortoise every year.”
Sir Arthur turned to me and glared from under a raised eyebrow as de Silva laughed again with that bark of his. “I like him, Artie. He does not seem afraid of us. Tell me; have you heard from her Ladyship?”
The sudden change of topic did not phase Sir Arthur. “Unfortunately, no,” he replied. “She has not answered my letters in almost fifty years. The disposition of her territory may need to be addressed this weekend. Derry has not been without a Guardian since 1618.” As he spoke, several sets of headlights appeared at the foot of the driveway and made their way towards us. “I suspect that His Excellency will have something to say on the matter if we divide it between us without offering him some form of compensation.”
“He shares no border with her. It is not his concern,” said de Silva as the cars drew nearer. Though they were still fifty yards away, he lowered his voice.
“He may still object, as is his right” said Sir Arthur as he stepped forward to greet the convoy.
In addition to three SUVs the department had hired, there were some land rovers, of the old-fashioned large chunky design, that I hadn’t seen before. They were presumably the Archbishop’s. There were four of them.
The cars stopped in front of us and doors of three of them opened. Two men stepped out of each one and turned full circle, scanning the area. When they determined it was safe, one of them walked to the door of the remaining land rover and knocked politely on the glass.
“All clear,” he said before turning to stare intently at the welcoming party. He was taller than me and almost as broad and I’d been a cop too long not to spot concealed weapons when I couldn’t see them. The door he had tapped opened and the suspension creaked as His Grace, The Archbishop Augustine, began the laborious process of exiting his vehicle.
Despite the size of his car, the only way he could get out of the back seat was to shuffle to the edge and then turn awkwardly until his legs were outside the vehicle. He carefully decanted himself onto the gravel. Augustine was tall - maybe as tall as his bodyguard - and had always been stocky. But in the ten years since I had seen him last, he had grown fat. Though as he turned his head, as if smelling the night air, he still held a sense of restrained power. But it was hard to put aside the mental image of a polar bear standing on its hind legs. He wore his usual cassocks - or were they vestments? - though they were presumably specially tailored, given his size and their fit. I wondered briefly if the Vatican had a “Big and Tall” department, and if they even knew he was still here in Ireland after a millennia and a half.
“Sir Arthur,” said Augustine, bowing as much as his frame allowed.
Sir Arthur and de Silva returned the gesture as Arthur said, “I bid you welcome to my home. In accordance with the First Laws, what is mine is yours.”
“Don Juan Perez,” said Augustine, turning slightly and extending a hand. “It is an honor to meet you again. It must be what? Six years?”
“More than eight,” replied de Silva, as he stepped out and took the proffered hand with both of his. “We met in Limerick to finalize our deal over western shipping routes. I believe we arranged it last time we were here.”
It was textbook politics. Augustine was trying to imply he had secret meetings with de Silva and de Silva was doing his best to defuse the idea with Sir Arthur. I had expected it, but hadn’t expected it this early. Augustine hadn’t even put his metaphorical bags down.
“This is Mister Woods,” I said, surprising the trio and myself. “He runs the estate. He will be happy to show you and your men to your accommodation.”
Augustine eyed me and Woods warily then gestured to his bodyguard. “This is Galligan, my chief of security. He will handle this.” Then he turned away as if I hadn’t spoken. “Sir Arthur, it has been a long trip. I trust there are refreshments and a place for us to talk?”
“There is,” said the Magistrate. “But we are only three. Lady York is absent, and it would not be proper to start proceedings without her.”
“She has been absent these last five meetings,” said Augustine, sourly. “We expect her to arrive now? She fled Ireland the moment the first bomb exploded in the city above her head and has not returned. If she is still alive, she has another territory and will not leave it just to visit us.”
As he spoke, his cars pulled away and the man that Augustine had identified as Galligan stepped forward to me and Woods. “His Excellency has several trunks. Which room is his?” he asked.
“Of course, sir. This way,” said Woods and led us off the portico towards the side of the house. As we followed, Galligan drew level with me.
He looked down at me and asked, “You the grey?”
A sudden realization dawned. “Galligan? You’re white clan?”
“Born and bred,” he said with a smile. “My father is your uncle’s opposite number.”
His glamour was good; Maybe even better than mine. Even with the surname, I hadn’t realised he was a troll. “I met some white clan trolls about two months ago,” I said, way too casually.
“Oh?” he answered, even more casually.
“They took some rings off a friend of mine. He’s been trying to get them back ever since.”
“I wish him the best of luck,” said Galligan. “White clan is pretty big and we don’t track everyone as tightly as your uncle does. Though, if you have a description of the ones that assaulted you, I can ask around…”
“I never said they assaulted me,” I said.
“Oh my apologies,” he replied with a grin. “I just assumed.”
It seemed it was going to be that sort of weekend, then.
Augustine had been accorded a large bungalow, towards the rear of the house, with a smaller one next to it set aside for his entourage. Woods and I escorted Galligan there, where he insisted we turn over all copies of every key to both houses. We left him to conduct an inspection and returned to the front of the property.
“You were here last time? I don’t remember you,” said Woods. There was a tinge of nervousness in his voice.
“I looked a bit different back then,” I said. “And I was pretty junior. I spent most of that weekend parked in a jeep watching the entrance.”
“Things are very tense,” he said, then he gestured back to where the Archbishop’s men were swarming the outside of the two bungalows. “There is all this security that has never been here in forty years. Is there going to be trouble?”
“Probably not,” I said, trying to be reassuring. “And the Magistrate is always careful. Even if trouble broke out, he’d step in front of it himself before he’d let someone like yourself get hurt.”
Woods nodded thoughtfully, then glanced back at Galligan. “I get bad vibes from that one.”
“Me too,” I confessed. “But if he tries anything, let me know. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to knock him about the place.”
“I’ll come right to you, Mister…”
“Grey. Victor Grey,” I said, reaching out to shake the old man’s hand.
He shook back, smiling for the first time since I’d met him.
Back at the portico, the honor guard had lost some cohesion and its lines were a little irregular. The three vampires on the porch stood in a loose triangle, each eyeing the others suspiciously.
“How long should we wait for someone who may not arrive?” asked Augustine as Woods and I returned.
Sir Arthur said, “If Lady Catherine did not arrive for the rendezvous, Mister Kelly will let us know.” He checked his phone. “The cars are almost here.”
The lines re-formed briefly, then broke up again after a few minutes. It was almost 2 a.m. and despite preparing for this all week, I could see drooping heads and yawns from the assembled troops.
I was just about to suggest a break when headlights appeared at the foot of the drive. Kelly from Materials had been given the thankless task of bringing three SUVs to Newry to fetch a vampire that nobody expected to arrive. Amina Ogbonna would probably be driving the lead vehicle.
The cars pulled up opposite the porch and Kelly hopped out hurriedly from the passenger seat of the second car. As he raced around the car, he shot the group of us a look I had not expected that could only be described as ‘wild-eyed panic’. He reached the rear door and opened it, bowing deeply as he did.
As soon as the door opened, a red-haired man who I had never seen before stepped out. He looked young, though that didn’t say much considering I shared a stoop with two men born before the founding of Babylon. The rumours said that a vampire’s apparent age was determined by how often and how well they fed. If that was true, and if this man was a vampire, it meant he fed very well as he looked to be in his twenties.
His clothing was something out of the 1920s. He wore a three-piece brown tweed suit with waistcoat and pocket-watch. He bowed to the assembled trio, then straightened and turned to the car again.
He offered his hand to help a young woman exit the back seat. She had long dark hair and wore a black cocktail dress that I guessed cost more than the car. She had strappy sandals with a large heel, which caused her to stumble a bit on the gravel. Her companion took her arm protectively to steady her, and she looked up at him with half-closed eyes and a confused expression.
He returned her look with a gentle smile, and guided her towards the trio waiting on the steps. He bowed again and said, “I am Own Hamilton, one-time Laird of Islay and new Guardian of the North. I humbly accept your invitation to this summit.”
Don Juan Perez let out a low growl that I felt through the concrete under my feet as much as I heard, as the Archbishop stepped forward angrily. Sir Arthur raised an arm to stop Augustine and said in a low cool voice, “The invitation was for Lady York.”
Hamilton smiled. “I understand, but she has been dead for years. The rumours in Derry say she was killed when security forces looking for terrorists in all the wrong places raided her house during the day and exposed her to the sunlight. Back in ‘77, I believe.”
The Magistrate harrumphed loudly. “I also heard those rumours, and they have been thoroughly disproven. There was no such raid.”
“Well, she has not been seen since then,” said Hamilton with a shrug. “Perhaps someone else got her, or she fled to avoid such an unfortunate outcome. But her territory was unclaimed. Until now.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Murtagh loosen his sidearm in its holster.
“There is a protocol to such things,” said Augustine and I could feel de Silva’s growl drop an octave.
“An entreaty, yes,” said Hamilton. “But this has been a very recent development and I decided there was no better time and place to make it than here and now, when you were all present. Sissy here,” and he acknowledged the woman on his arm for the first time, “is a native of the city and has been absent for almost forty years. She longed to return.”
The woman looked up upon hearing her name and smiled sleepily at Hamilton before her eyes glazed over and she seemed to drift away again.
“This is my Susan O’Connell, my paramour,” Hamilton continued, as if that explained everything.
“We will give your entreaty due consideration,” said Sir Arthur. This drew sharp looks from Don Juan Perez and Augustine. “But should it be rejected, you will be expected to withdraw from the territory immediately.”
“That is all I ask,” said Hamilton.
“Then I bid you welcome to my home,” said Sir Arthur. “In accordance with the First Laws, what is mine is yours.”
Comments
Post a Comment