13 Drops of Blood (15 page)

Would this storm never end?

Mary knew
why
the weather had become hostile: the Tambora volcano erupted in Indonesia three weeks earlier, dropping 1500 cubic kilometers of ash into the atmosphere. The explosion killed 10,000 people instantly, another 92,000 were killed by the eruption, and 82,000 died of starvation. In total, 184,000 people were dead. It was the largest eruption in historic time.

Mary knew these facts, most of them anyway. She put two and two together: big, bad volcano went big, bad weather. Simple as that.

Some thought the horrific weather conditions marked the beginning of the end: the apocalypse.

Somehow Mary doubted it.

Tapping her fingers on the table, an image floated within the constructs of her mind. It was the face of a friend, Lord Byron.

She closed her eyes, sighed.

Byron was losing his faith in her, and Mary didn’t want that. Didn’t want the man to mislay his confidence, his belief. The writing circle was all she had, or so it seemed more nights than not. And Lord Byron was the biggest part of the writing circle. If he lost faith, cast her aside, what then?

Expelling a deep and shaky breath, Mary visualized a smug look on Byron’s face. She imagined him grinning and laughing. Then, without realizing it, her hands became tightly clenched fists and her knuckles turned white.

A horror story,
Bryon had challenged.

Damn.

Shuffling her thoughts, she considered another friend, another circle member: John Keats. But Keats was no smarter than Byron. He was no better. Of course, he did have some good qualities. He was handsome, well dressed, well spoken. He had strong hands, wide shoulders, and a kind face. And she thought about Keats from time to time, when she was alone, away from her husband. When she felt needy, adventurous. Mischievous. But she didn’t
like
him.

Or did she?

Mary wasn’t sure.

John Keats didn’t understand Mary Shelly’s complexities. He never thought about her, never looked at her the way she looked at him, with ravenous eyes and fervent desire. No. John was too absorbed, and something of a character. He was slain by his own ego, his own designs––filled to the brim with self-esteem, pride and arrogance. And to make matters worse, John Keats
loved
Byron’s idea of writing a horror story. He absolutely adored it.

Mary opened her eyes and unraveled her fists. She looked at the design of the stones beneath her feet and the mug of tea sitting next to her pen. She looked at the unfocused scribbles on the page. The word
disappointing
came to mind; her writing had become sloppy in more ways then one.

I want to stab myself in the heart
, she thought uncharacteristically, while fighting the urge to scream out in frustration.

And then, without hesitation, Mary thought of Keats. Again.

* * *

“You solicit the darkness,” Keats had said on the heels of Byron making his horror story suggestion. The words rolled off his tongue as if he were an actor in a play. His back straightened. His smile engulfed his face. “And I am but the spark to light that darkness, that malignant imp. A fine and justly wicked proposal. Excellent my dear man, austerely excellent.”

Laughter from another room seeped through the doorway.

“Keats,” Mary whispered then, thinking the laughter to be his.

She felt a knot in her stomach, and hated emotions that messed with her thoughts. She had become as confused as a schoolgirl. Sometimes she wanted to embrace Keats. Sometime she wanted to strangle him. Sometimes she wanted to strangle Keats and Byron both.

Her eyes became thin, frightful slits.

They wanted horror…

It occurred to Mary, as she sat away from the desk, that her husband, Percy Shelley, had agreed with the horror story idea as well. He smiled with delight upon hearing it.

What was he thinking?

Was it not bad enough that Mary had fallen in love with Percy, a well-known, married man? Not bad enough that she was guilty of destroying his marriage and held responsible for his wife’s suicide? Could Percy not see her misfortune, her heartbreak, her turmoil?

Did he not care?

Mary had
too much
horror in her real life. They all knew it. Why in God’s name create more?

Her father had disowned her; her sister had committed suicide mere weeks ago––two closely related suicides in one year, no less. Her marriage was surrounded by fierce public hostility. She was driven out of town. And now, Byron challenges the writing group to create horror?

Horror?

Is he a fool
, she wondered.
Or does he secretly hate me?

With the question came fury, merciless and swift.

Sweeping the pages from the table, Mary leapt up and circled the room. Thoughts and words were complicated inside her mind no more. Her thoughts were flowing, burning. If she had an ax, she would split the table in two. No––in four! She would drop the blade as many times as she could, until blisters in her fingers were created and blood dripped from her hands.

Her muscles tightened; her teeth clenched.

Needing a drink more than she ever had in her nineteen years, Mary checked the cabinet on the far side of the room. Sometimes a bottle of wine would be there, sometimes two or three.

Today there were none.

Didn’t matter. She didn’t want wine. Not really. She wanted something harder, something cutting. And she needed time alone, time away from the group and the castle they were residing in. Time to think, time away from this hell she now called home.

The thought of sneaking off to the
Orchid Street Pub
had barely crossed Mary’s mind when a snap of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the castle’s giant wall of windows. She glanced through the glass and peeked outside.

Streets had become rivers. Valleys had turned to ponds. It was another intense August evening, muggy and humid, rainy and gusty.

Was a drink really worth the trek?

Mary crossed the room, approaching the hallway door with slow, cautious steps. She placed her ear against the thick of the door. Listened. Heard nothing, then voices. She heard Byron laugh, Keats laugh. She heard Percy speak.

And her small hands became white knuckled fists.

It was decided. She would go.

Tonight, Mary would leave the writing group in search of inspiration, and walk the dark and watery streets, alone.

* * *

He was a huge man, who looked like warrior, but served as a grave keeper. His name was Frank, and he sat alone in the
Orchid Street Pub
. His arms were pythons; his legs were tree trunks. He had an eye with no sight and a scar the length of a long blade around his neck. With four of his front teeth missing, he appeared to be the largest, meanest, man in Europe.

Some thought him to be the largest man in the world.

The cemetery, which sat less than one hundred and twenty yards from the small, empty pub, had the bodies of two men, a woman, and a child, rotting inside posh wooden coffins, deep in the basement of the yard’s pantheon-style mausoleum. With each passing day, the stench of the dead grew more fetid, more rotted and foul. Rats, disfigured and diseased, would soon gather around the caskets in distressful numbers. This was no good. Graves needed to be dug.

Frank understood this, but was getting nothing accomplished. He couldn’t work in this weather, and the storm had lasted three weeks now. It was growing stronger, getting worse, and stopping his workday before it began.

He swayed, and turned his head.

William the barkeep was sitting on a stool in the corner of the pub, cleaning glasses. He looked up, smiling. Then, keeping his hands busy, he eyed Frank, wishing that he would leave.

William didn’t want to sit inside a near-empty bar. He wanted to be home, in the company of family. Of course, he would never say anything, not to a man of
Frank’s
size. He valued his neck and guarded it watchfully.

Mary opened the door and stepped inside. She was soaked. Her clothing hung from her body like an oversized wet glove. Hair dangled in long, thin strands. Water ran from her chin.

She looks like a drowned cat,
William thought, placing a glass on a table. He stepped behind the bar.
And she appears to be alone. How unfortunately odd.

“My lady,” Will said. “What brings you out on a night as dreary and as dreadful as this? Surely you can’t be alone.”

Mary shook off the rain the best she could. She pulled her hat from her head, slapped it against her leg, and made her way across the room. Sitting on a stool not far from Frank, she glanced his way, but did not see him.

“My only desire is to be out,” Mary said to the barkeep, shifting her meager weight inside her sopping attire, “to be away from those who have cluttered my thoughts and dampened my heart. I am alone––here for the same reason that anyone would come to an establishment such as this, on a night so sodden. To wash the pain and grief from my tired mind, and drink my sorrows away.”

“Aye,” the barkeep said. “But to be a woman, young and alone? It is not common, nor is it considered wise. The necropolis sitting but a stone’s throw away is teeming to the gates with brave young women, fearless women, women that died by the cursed ways of the streets.”

“I would think it less wise to travel alone on a handsome night,” Mary quickly responded, “a night in which the streets were thick with men, intoxicated men. Obtuse men. Tonight, there is none of that. There
are
no men. The streets are wet, I question that not. But the streets are safe enough for the likes of me. The pathway is innocent, innocent as it is apt to be. This I reckon to be true.”

“Aye,” the barkeep said again, seeing the wisdom of Mary’s thinking. “Then, my lady of the storm, what shall it be? Perhaps an Irish tea to warm the blood?”

Mary smiled, ran her fingers through her dripping hair. “Perhaps a dry cloth?”

William smirked. “Of course. Let me check the back room. I’ll find something for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

As William walked away, Mary’s eyes fell upon Frank. For the first time, she
looked
at him, really
looked
at him. His large, bulky stature sent a shock of anxiety through her body; he seemed more monster than man.

“My name is Mary Shelly. I live down the way.”

The words fell from Mary’s mouth before she knew she would say them. It was an act of nervousness, not bravery or desire for companionship.

Frank turned towards Mary. He rubbed his giant hand against his chin and grinned. “Are you not fearful of me, woman?”

Mary sat straight, wondering if she had initiated an unwise conversation. A moment passed. “Should I be?”

“Most are.”

William re-entered the room and handed Mary a towel.

She thanked him, crushing the fabric against her body, hair, and face. She ordered a glass of scotch. William fetched the drink and Mary paid for it. A moment later, William returned to his stool, and lost himself in his work.

“You failed to answer the question.” Mary said, after taking a pair of sips from her glass. The alcohol burned, and soothed, as she spoke.

“Aye.”

“Well? Will you answer it?”

Keeping his eyes on his drink, the grave keeper said, “A woman should be afraid of what gives her fear, be it wise or be it not.”

“Yes, of course. But should I fear you?”

Frank’s eyes rolled in their hollows, like pool balls into a pocket. “Not of me. I know what I am. And what I’m not. I am a man of peace, not anger and violence. Fear me none.”

“Oh?”

“Aye.”

Mary took another drink. This time, the alcohol burned less.

“Then why, might I ask, do you have the look of a man that has seen a great deal of violence? Perhaps you were born with that scar around your neck. Is that so?”

“I was born with no scar,” Frank said, his voice becoming quiet. He was not amused.

“So you
do
know violence.”

Mary didn’t know why she challenged the giant man. It seemed unwise, and yet for some reason, she enjoyed playing with danger.

Frank could see what Mary was doing, the way she was manipulating the conversation. He didn’t like it, and he began to ignore her.

He drank from his cup. In time, they drank together in silence.

Frank ordered another drink, as did Mary. William filled both glasses and returned to his work. Then Mary eyed Frank one last time, baiting him with her stare.

And still, Frank didn’t budge.

Mary thought her little game with the giant was over, and after she had given up all hope of conversation, Frank surprised her, saying:

“I have something that would fill your heart black with dread, woman. You need not fear me, foolish girl who walks the streets of a thousand murders –
alone
. But I do hold a key, be it physical,
and
metaphorical. It is the key to the greatest fear I have ever known. It is the face of the serpent, the true hand of shadow.”

In mid sip, Mary froze. She lowered her glass, turned her head and swallowed. Her eyes were round and wide. Her lips briefly quivered. “What did you say?”

“You know what I said, woman. You heard my words, and know their meaning.”

“The hand of shadow?”

“Aye.”

“The face of the serpent?”

Frank nodded, grinned. “Aye.”

Mary expelled a great breath. Putting an arm on the bar rail, she whispered, “Lucifer? Lucifer of the fallen angels?”