Sanguisuge: Eleanor Carter

“The Priest wields no power if faith waivers. A true believer needs no church or chapel from which to pray to their God. Conversely, the daemon cares not for faith. Those that believe not in Gods should never assume that such entities do not believe in them.” Letters of the Anonymous Exorcist.

“There are such beings as vampires, some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples.”

Bram Stoker

“Luna est dominae, volkodlak malorum
Artes et perditae, lycan incarnatus
Luna est dominae, volkodlak malorum
Artes et perditae, lycan incarnatus

Rota, vita, Mara, vena
Mare, dracul, morte, vita
Rota, vita, Mara, vena
Mare, dracul, morte, vita”

Nox Arcana, Night of the Wolf (Click this to see the video on YouTube).

Me entrego a ella
La noche eterna
Estoy perdido
Y nadie está conmigo

La Noche Eterna, Haunt Me (Click this to see the video on YouTube).

For now the darkness returns and the world of Dragon Stone takes a respite. Prison of Ice progresses and yet an olde calling returned after listening to Night of the Wolf by Nox Arcana (link above).

This belongs to another manuscript called Sanguisuge.

BLOGBATTLE prompt word Pareidolia

Sanguisuge: Eleanor Carter

The Priest sighed as he looked at Maggie. Both had almost given up on both faith and hope. Despite his attempts at convincing her he would defeat the vampire, she knew loss of belief made them vulnerable. Eleanor Carter had not only left England but slaughtered her brother as they reached land.

“Are you all right?”

“No. It doesn’t matter where I go. She will find me. I came here to find hope.”

He sank into a worn armchair, the bag containing his tools as an exorcist and vampire hunter discarded at his side. A profound sense of insignificance washed over him, his long-standing role in the church now a hollow shell, abandoned by a God who seemed to have turned his back.

“She must not endure, Maggie. No matter how we feel, hope must not die.”

Maggie looked up, a tear in her eye. “There is no hope. At every step, she has taken life and turned it black or destroyed it. She is a daemon.”

The Father turned a crucifix over in his hand. It felt cold and lifeless. “We are not dead yet.”

“No.” She averted her gaze from the priest’s revelation, her voice trembling with fear and desperation. “Death would be a mercy. Can you imagine the triumph in her eyes if someone like you were to be transformed into one of her undead minions?”

The Priest slammed his fist onto the desk he was standing by. “Never, while I live, then her destruction is paramount. If death comes my way, then you shall be the one to take it.” From an alcove, he took out a pistol. Six silver bullets rested in a small tray. He carefully loaded these before handing the pistol to Maggie.

“Think of your brother, Jacob, then aim for the heart. Falter not, or your end will be swift, child, and remember, these trinkets we hang around our necks are worthless without faith. That is her weapon.”

Maggie recollected the graveyard and her brother’s dialogue on the dead ringers who used string tied to a small bell to indicate they had been buried alive. Instead, they found a gutted warden that Eleanor Carter had butchered. That was just before he told her to run. It was the last time she had seen him alive. Even the vision the succubus had toyed her with wasn’t her brother anymore. She had turned him and then hurled him off a cliff like some puppet. She felt anger grow at the memory.

“She must have somewhere to await nightfall.”

“Aye, unless her powers can draw clouds across the sky and witch fog to hide her path.”

“Then we are doomed before we even start.”

“Now you start to sound like me. Lost and carrying a bag of trinkets that, without faith, will not work.” He paused, looking into the out of time mirror bestowed upon him by Conrad Carmichael, which was as evil as the vampire. “Assuming we can even see her in the darkness.”

Maggie cast her gaze at the oak-panelled doors that remained open. Never had she considered that priests harbour such a vast array of weaponry. Many were razor-sharp and displayed under glass or on racks. Around these were bookshelves littered with literature on daemons, witchcraft, and more. As she scanned the spines, one stood out: The Book of the Exorcist, written by someone she had never heard of, Jeremiah Delalande.

The Father saw her staring. “That one is curious. It is well-written and a great study of demonology and the dark art of Necromancy.” He paused. “But, I did not acquire it. Rather like the witch mirror, it found me.”

Maggie turned to face him, “But that’s not possible.”

“No. And yet, it is neatly inserted into my collection as if it had been there all along. Yet three weeks ago, it did not exist.”

She knew there was more, “Go on.”

“It’s not of this world. It speaks of Dragons, prophecies, and ancient civilisations rich in sorcery and Magic. Curiously, it also knows of this mirror, the place known as Houghton Fengrave, and the dead marsh that surrounds a folly.”

“Surely that was just folklore. Tales told to prevent people from losing their way in the bog.”

“Normally, I would tend to agree. Yet, it speaks of a Hybrid that sleeps in undeath.”

Maggie gripped the back of a chair, her knuckles turning white. “You mean another vampire?”

“No, a Hybrid guarded by a wyvern that Delalande called The Black.”

“I’m not familiar with that, Father.” Maggie watched the sun start to wane through a stained glass window. Curious, she had not noticed that it depicted a Jade Dragon curled around the frame, facing an adversary dressed in black. “The day is dying. We should make sure everything is in place to ward off Eleanor Carter.”

The father followed her gaze. Too quickly did day turn to night. Lore said they should have found her sanctuary and then seeded it with holy water and planted a rose. Bravery had deserted him along with his faith. That needed addressing. Tonight, he would pray. “Agreed. Take what you need and read The Exorcist. Many worlds exist if there is any truth in the words. Rich in wonder and dismay. There are even doors across thin points along ley lines. Once we have lived or died trying to end our vampiress, I will research this further.”

“And that?” Maggie hinted at the mirror with her eyes. She would no longer look at it. The last time, the reflection was not hers but that of some Victorian woman with a twisted smile.

“It needs to be lost or taken to those who can hide it with relics the church deems too sacred or dangerous for the world to look upon.”

That sounded ominous. “I am no vampire hunter, father.”

“No, but you seek vengeance on that which destroyed your brother.”

“Easy to say when the sun has not yet found the moon.”

“As are many things when night is far away.” His gaze turned to a frown. Outside, witch fog was rolling across the hills, reaching for what remained of the sun on the horizon. “She is coming.”

###

Eleanor Carter had time on her side. With that came wisdom and a want for longevity. Any who dared threaten such needed removing or turning. With beauty came darkness and a weapon that made men pause before driving a hammer onto the stake poised upon her bosom. All it took was the right moment to open her eyes and smile. None entered her grounds unseen. The eyes of Minerva’s birds watched over as nemophilists in the dead of night.

Wind swept her black hair backwards and rippled the folds of her cloak. As the sun neared its nadir on the horizon, she began the incantation that would draw moisture from the earth and turn it into fog and mist, which she used to foil the last rays of light. As it did so, patterns filled the skies, merging with low-lying clouds that held an orange glow where the light struck them as they disappeared into the night. She always paused to see these, holding onto a vestigial memory of a time before the sanguisuge.

Where once they depicted dragons and faces, now it was death marks, skulls, and creatures of the night. If she remembered the words of her nursery teacher correctly, there was a word for these things: pareidolia, the naming of order riven from the chaos that living minds drew from nothing. Now, she knew they were real. Omens, demons and prophecies all blended with those with higher perceptions to unveil their secrets.

For instance, the one resting over the chapel on the hill was the memento mori. If the priest and girl within knew old languages, they would serve this as a reminder that they had to die. She smiled as the fog drifted up the hill, knowing it would soon embrace the bethel. Perhaps the wrong word now since both the Priest and girl had lost their faith.

She began to flow toward the lower foothill. From there, a narrow path ascended toward the summit. By the time she reached that, the witch fog would be coiled around a Godless Chapel. But, she sensed something else. Another watched the two within that was in spiritus. An essence she seemed to recollect from somewhere. Elisabeth Beechwood, the dead harpy, burned alive before the beast within could take control. Older memories stirred. The bog with the folly and her child bricked up alive in the cellar of the manse that rested on its shores. My child, she thought, finding the pain returning.

Fire now burned in her veins. The essence of the child killer flowed through a mirror. One that another had taken through time to detach the revenant from other vile acts that would spawn in the future. It hadn’t worked and served only to prevent people from that time from being seduced by the ghost who would not let go of the earth. Above, in the Godless chapel, she sensed auras of fear that she fed off. The stench was like a tracer. One cowered in a room in the left tower, and the other rocked in a chair in front of a fire, taking his cups.

The Priest would be turned. The girl would join her brother in the ocean that rocked against the cliff not far away. Time had eroded caves into the rock. Places that once were used by smugglers to hoard treasure looted in piracy.

Elenor Carter was now at the oak door. Garlic hung from spikes driven into the wood, and she sensed holy water had been sprayed along the threshold. Both wive’s tales and folly. Water without faith was no more than empty hope. Alliums were pungent and deterred those naïve enough to assume those within knew what they were doing. This Priest once held great power. A renowned Exorcist and slayer of daemons. Now, he was a withered husk.

She paused. Was that down to Elizabeth Beechwood and the mirror? Had that termagant sucked away his life force? If so, she was more dangerous than either of the two cravens inside. Pushing that aside, she flowed through the door as a mist that reformed once inside. Now, she sensed the beating of hearts and the surge of blood as it struggled through veins and arteries. A smell that even outweighed the weed hung on the door outside.

The Priest was almost asleep. His odour was sweat and wine. Above, the girl was concentrating. Reading, if Eleanor was not mistaken. She will wait. The inebriate in the parlour would fall first.

She stood by the door, watching his flame shadow flicker against the curtains, his eyes rolling back under Bacchanal’s smile. For a lowly Priset, the decor was impressive, as were the fallen trinkets of God. One of them was a rosary clutched in a hand that was no longer fierce. To the right was the mirror, and within it, the creature Elisabeth Beechwood smirked.

Another that would burn again if Eleanor Carter had anything to say. Instead, she threw a blanket over the frame. The Priest would not be needing it tonight. Turning from the mirror, she knelt before the incumbent Exorcist. His breathing had grown slower as the cups took hold. She considered he had already accepted death, trusting it would be swift and free of existence as a thrall unto her. Tactically, that would suit her purpose. Sacrifice this imbecile once his turning was disclosed. Those in the village were superstitious and would soon know this son of God had lost his battle with the darkness. She simply waited until his bones were dust and ash before taking another ship back to England.

She placed a fingernail on his throat. More a talon, razor-sharp and used to make an incision that drew blood. With her hand now against his forehead, she moved to take succour. That was when his eyes opened like those of a rabbit caught in the lamplight.

“Too late, Priest,” she whispered as her teeth locked onto the wound in his throat.”

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Dragon Stone: Garden of Death