A Link in the Chain: Part One
by Eledwhen
A girl found the body as the dawn came up, its face twisted in a soundless scream and its eyes wide and staring. The collar of its shirt was gaping open and the skin was bleached and pale.

Later, once the girl had been calmed down and the body picked up and laid out on a table in the nearby auberge, they sent for the priest.

Father Jacques was an old man who had seen much over his years of faithful service to his church. Only pity glanced over his face as he stood over the young man and murmured the words of absolution. Then he bent over to examine the body.

Those who had laid him out had remarked upon the curious mark on the boy’s cheek; two long scratches crossing each other, the edges open and crusted with dark brown dried blood. Father Jacques’s eyes narrowed as he saw this, and with gentle fingers he pulled aside the collar of the shirt, his fingers searching for what he knew he would find – two small holes on the neck, blanched from blood loss.

Jacques sighed and rearranged the body, sprinkling holy water on the skin as he did so, and slipping a wooden cross in between the dead fingers. Then he left, promising the innkeeper that he would return and conduct the funeral of the unknown corpse the next day.


* * *
In England, the Chairman of the Council of Watchers scratched a few words in a large parchment book in front of him and then put down his quill, sighing deeply.

“Disturbing news?” asked one of the council members, himself poring over a book.

“Yes. I have just received word from France about yet another death. The same trademarks. Angelus has struck again.”

“The cross on the cheek and so on?”

“All that, yes. I am told he is in the Paris suburbs.” The Chairman flicked through the book. “That’s thirteen reports of him in the last month. God only knows how many more victims he’s had.”

“We should stop him.”

“Stake him?”

“The usual way, yes.”

“Ideal if we could get close. But he’s strong, and fast, and cunning. He has no qualms.” The Chairman shuddered. “I suppose we’ll have to alert the Slayer. I hate to do it to her, but there is no option. This has gone on too long. Angelus must be stopped.”


* * *
The source of their concern was quite unaware of it, and indeed had he been aware it is doubtful that he would have cared. Angelus was not given to caring.

He sat in a corner of the inn and listened to the talk, a little grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes half-closed. Occasionally the tip of his tongue would flick out and he would lick his lips, perhaps in anticipation of something.

The events of the previous week were still being discussed. Everyone had gone to the funeral of the unknown boy, mostly out of curiosity as much as respect for the dead. The girl who had discovered the corpse worked as a waitress in the auberge, and the drinkers teased her gently about it as they speculated on the cause of the boy’s death.

“Common murderer – took ‘is money and ran,” one man said.

“But why?” said another, picking up a brimming glass of ale. “‘E didn’t look rich.”

“I heard Father Jacques talking,” their companion said darkly. “Blood gone. Shirt torn. At the collar, no less.” His fingers felt the skin on his neck tenderly, and the faces of the others showed their sudden realisation and fear.

“Then every house should have a cross on the door,” the first speaker said. “Garlic. Holy water. And keep a sharpened stick.”

In the corner Angelus smiled to himself, then, wrapping his long black coat around him, he stood up and slipped outside into the night like a shadow.


* * *
Not far away, a girl and a man were sitting together in the ornate library of a Parisian house, heads bent over books and journals. On the table in front of them lay a letter, open, and cast aside.

The girl turned a page, then, suddenly angry, she slammed the book closed.

“I can’t do it, Amédée,” she said. “You’ve read this. We all know it’s hopeless.”

“I think you’re the last hope,” the man addressed as Amédée said. “I don’t like it either. But he’s in the area. He’ll come soon enough. And he’s still quite young, for a vampire. You’ve bagged much older ones.”

“Even they spoke of him with awe,” the girl said. “Amédée, I’m frightened.”

“Don’t be, Laure, don’t be. I’m here to watch you, and I will watch you. Cheer up and keep reading. It may help.”


* * *
Father Jacques was sitting by his fire thinking when the knock came loud and resounding. He stood up slowly and put a shawl around his shoulders and patted his pockets before going to answer it.

On the doorstep a tall young man stood, his eyes shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, leaning heavily on a stick. Father Jacques looked in concern at his visitor.

“Father, I wish to confess,” the figure said hoarsely.

“Does something trouble you, my son?”

“I have sinned, let me confess!” There was desperation in the voice. Father Jacques felt in his pocket and brought out a bulb of pungent garlic, making it clearly visible. The stranger made no sign of movement, and the priest made his decision. Holding open the door, he held out his hand.

“Then enter, my son.”

The visitor came in and stood shivering in the dark hallway beneath the crucifix until the priest had closed the door and bolted it shut. Jacques turned back to him.

“Forgive my caution, my son. There are dark things around.”

“There are.” The stranger shuddered as he spoke, and Father Jacques took his arm and led him into the fire-lit room, pushing him gently into a seat and turning to hang up his shawl. When he turned around again the stranger had taken off his hat and laid aside the stick. His features were strong and clear-cut, the mouth broad and thinly etched, and the skin beneath the black hair was flawless and so pale as to be almost white.

“Speak then your troubles,” Jacques offered, sitting down.

“I’d be interested to know your connection with the Council,” the stranger said.

Jacques looked in puzzlement and dawning worry at his visitor.

“You’re from the Council?”

The other laughed, long and cheerful.

“No, no, they’re looking for me. I believe you gave them some information.”

The colour bleached out of Jacques’s face.

“My God!” he whispered.

“You’re out of his hands,” the stranger said. “You invited me in. Remember?” He leant forwards, malice in his eyes. “Know who I am, Father?”

“Angelus.” The voice was creaky with horror.

“Oh, well done! You do know me.”

The priest’s hands fumbled for the rosary around his neck, and he held it up, his hands shaking.

“Begone! Leave this house!”

Angelus laughed again.

“Those things only hurt on contact, you know. Garlic too. Ingesting it’s – well, murder! Put it down, Father. I intend going nowhere. If you call for help you’ll die quicker, that’s all.”

Jacques slowly let go of the rosary.

“Good. Now, tell me where the Slayer is.”

“In – in Paris.”

“Where?” The question came like a whipcrack.

The priest didn’t reply. In one fluid movement, Angelus stood up and came to sit on the arm of Jacques’s chair.

“Where?” he asked again, so close that the priest could see the pointed tips of his teeth.

“Th – third. Rue des Médécins.”

“Good. Her name?”

“Laure de St. Jean.”

“Her Watcher?”

“Amédée Simon.”

“Lovely.” As Angelus spoke the words, his features changed, becoming the feral visage of a hunter, a killer. He bent down over the terrified priest and fed.


* * *
In Paris Laure de St. Jean was training hard, supervised by her Watcher. As he counselled his charge, Amédée Simon weighed up her chances and sorrowfully put them low. He sighed.

Laure turned from attacking the wooden dummy in front of her and crossed the room to her mentor. Her blonde hair, twisted up on her head, was damp from exertion and her skin glowed.

“Amédée, what’s wrong? You look miserable.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this is something we should run from.”

“We can’t do that. One day he will perish.”

“One day? When? And who will he take with him?” Amédée shook his head. “Laure, what if he kills you?”

“Then he kills me. Then I die. It comes to us all at some stage.”

Amédée closed his eyes tightly.

“I say to myself, he is just another, just like all the others, but something tells me this is wrong. That we shouldn’t be trying this.”

“He’s strong, we’ve seen that. He resists longer against the garlic and the crosses, but in the end, Amédée, he is only a demon, and demons can be killed.” She smiled affectionately at her Watcher. “Besides, you’re scaring me. That’s not right. Come and be attacked, that’ll cheer you up.”


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