Day 13 - Red House

“They say,” said Charles Carruthers, pausing for effect as the candlelight flickered against his thin face “that he has parlance with the Devil himself.”

“He is never seen out of the house during the hours of daylight,” added George Meanwell, leaning his portly frame close in to the table and keeping his voice low, “and his curtains are always drawn tightly shut.”

“I met him once,” said Donald Craig, leaning back in his chair and swilling his glass of whiskey contemplatively, “he is tall, thin, and pale and there is something thoroughly unpleasant about him. It would not be difficult to believe he was what they say.”

“Poppycock,” said Luther Basterfield, sipping from his whiskey and then setting the crystal glass back down on the table, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Utter poppycock. He may well attempt to cultivate an air of mystery and macabre, but I’m sure this Aldous Stark is as human as any of us.”

“Always the sceptic, Luther,” said George, with a shake of his head that caused his jowls to shudder “but there are rumours of dark rituals at his country residence, Red House, on the weekends; of parties that go on for days and from which not everyone returns.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an agnostic,” said Luther, “As you know, I live in eternal hope of finding something that will prove to me that the supernatural is real.”

“I remember you debunking that medium last year,” said Donald, “What was her name? Anna? Elena?”

“Alexandra Moleva,” said Luther, cooly. “At least, that was the name she was using in public. She thought that sounding Russian would add to the mysticism; I can only imagine she felt that her act wouldn’t have the same cachet under her real name of Gladys Sugden.”

“But she fooled quite a few people before you went to see her,” said Charles, “Wasn’t Arthur Moorman paying her a retainer to contact his father on a weekly basis?”

“Indeed,” replied Luther. “Apparently, he was so lacking in confidence at running the business that he ended up using her to speak to the spirit of his father and make the decisions for him.”

“Remarkable,” breathed George.

“Oh, the most remarkable thing about it all was that she was making better decisions than Arthur,” said Luther with a smile, “once I’d unmasked her, he had to run the business on his own. In fact, the last I heard, he was filing for bankruptcy.”

They all laughed soundly at this and Charles poured them all more whiskey.

“You know you have really spoilt us with this Dalmore, Luther” said George, admiring his refilled glass.

“A fifty year malt,” said Luther, smirking. “I’ve no interest in anything that’s not been properly aged.”

“Stark is another case entirely to that medium,” said Donald, once the room had fallen silent, “there’s something about him that sends a shiver down one’s spine.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop him attracting female attention,” said Charles, “they flock to him, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Ladies interested in a rich and powerful man,” said Luther dryly, “you’ll pardon me for not being terribly shocked.”

“It’s more than that though,” said Donald, “he just seems to mesmerise them; he had two Baronets hanging off his every word the whole night that I saw him.”

“So, he’s a rich eccentric who manages to attract women despite giving you the chills,” said Luther, “I’m still not sure why you think this fellow deserves my attention.”

“Do you remember Colin Morgan?” asked George.

“The name rings a bell, but it’s a vague one.”

“He’s a banker,” replied George, “or, at least, he was. Big fellow with red hair, quite a temper on him.”

“And how is he connected to all of this?”

“Well, he had an argument with Stark at a party a few weeks ago. By all accounts, he got rather annoyed that Stark had apparently bewitched his fiancée. Voices were raised, well by Colin at least, and when Stark ignored him he apparently rolled up his sleeves and tried to take a swing at Stark.”

“Still not earning my interest, gentlemen.” said Luther, with a mock yawn.

“Colin used to box in his spare time,” said George, “he knew his way around a fight, that’s for sure. But when Colin threw a punch, Stark caught his fist and twisted his wrist until he’d forced Colin to drop to his knees. There’s no way anyone could stop a punch like that.”

“And that’s not the end of the story,” interrupted Donald, “Stark left the party after that, but the very next night, they found Colin Morgan dead inside a room on the 5^th floor of the Eton Hotel. A room that was locked from the inside. The only way in or out of the room was through a window with an opening that measured less than six inches.”

“And they are certain it was murder?” asked Luther.

“Oh yes,” said George, “Quite certain. You see, when they found him, he didn’t have a single drop of blood left in his body…”

Luther drew himself back from the table, steepled his fingers beneath his chin and pursed his lips.

“Well, I must admit, my curiosity is piqued ever so slightly...”

***

Securing an invitation to the next of Aldous Stark’s parties had not proven to be easy; not only were Stark’s guest lists selective, they were also highly unpredictable. However, after questions had been asked, a considerable number of favours called in, and a number of palms suitably greased, they had managed to obtain two invitations to Stark’s latest party to be held at his country residence. And, as luck would have it, it was to be a Masked Ball.

“Why on Earth did I ever let them persuade me to come with you?” asked Donald as they bumped along the twisting and dark country road.

“Donald, you really are a dreadful bore,” replied Luther, absently gazing out the window to where the lights of Stark’s country home could be seen burning in the distance. “We’re going to a party, it will be fun.”

“And how exactly do you plan to expose Stark?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, Donald. But I know his type; once he realises that I can see through his assortment of parlour tricks, he’ll lose any air of mystique he may have cultivated.”

“Assuming they are just tricks.”

Luther adjusted his black sequined mask and turned to look at Donald. “Well, as you know, I live in eternal hope of being proved wrong.”

They sat in silence for the last few minutes of the coach ride, as they turned off from the road and between two gate posts festooned with strange gargoyles. A sign, cast from black iron, was hung from the left gatepost which read Red House. Their carriage continued up the drive, past line upon line of flaming torches, and after bouncing across stone cobbles they finally pulled up in a large circular courtyard at the front of the house. The courtyard had a fountain at its centre that was also dominated by a large gargoyle, while the house itself was huge; three floors and countless windows with a large arched doorway as its main entrance.

They stepped down and were immediately welcomed by two white shirted, and masked, butlers. They appeared from this distance to be identical; both were dark haired and wore red velvet masks, both were well over six feet tall and powerfully built.

“Mr. Stark wishes to speak with you, gentlemen.” said the first one, while the second glowered at them as best as one could from behind a red velvet mask.

“Us?”said Luther, innocently, “Are you sure that you have the right carriage?”

“Quite sure, Mr. Basterfield.” said the butler, clasping his hands in front of him so that he could lightly flex his impressive muscles through the thin white fabric of his shirt.

Next to him, Luther could see that Donald was blanching a couple of shades paler.

“Well, in that case, lead on dear fellow,” said Luther, with a mock bow, before nudging Donald with an elbow and winking at him.

***

The first butler walked ahead of them, leading them through the large iron studded door at the front of Red House, and into a large tiled entrance hall where twin staircases lead up from both left and right ahead of them to an open set of double doors. The second butler stood behind them, blocking the door.

“It’s rather quiet for a party, don’t you think Donald.” said Luther, looking around and seeing no sign of any other guests.

“I’m beginning to think we perhaps got the date wrong,” said Donald, “maybe we should call it a night and head back?”

But the second butler shut the door behind them even as Donald began to turn around and then made a show of loudly sliding a metal bolt across to lock it.

“Up the stairs and through the doors,” said the first butler, nodding his head. “Mr. Stark has been expecting you.”

“Well, after coming all this way to meet him, that sounds a splendid idea.” said Luther and, with Donald following tentatively behind him he walked up the left staircase. The two butlers stayed behind, arms folded and each waiting at the bottom of one of the staircases.

The double doors at the top of the staircase opened into a large ballroom which, despite being decorated for a party was completely devoid of life except for three people seated at the farthest end of the room.

Aldous Stark was in the middle of the three on a golden throne with one leg crossed over the other; he was wearing an ornate red and black mask, a black suit and a red shirt. The darkness of his attire only served to highlight the paleness of his skin and Luther was struck by the fact that the only people he had seen who were paler had been corpses. To his left was a dark haired woman in a pale blue mask and a white dress seated on a wooden chair. To his right was a blonde haired woman who was kneeling with her hand bowed so that they couldn’t see her face.

“I must apologise for the lack of a party, Mr. Basterfield,” said Stark, his voice a low hiss. “But when I heard that you were so interested to meet me, it seemed a shame not to give you my very fullest attention.”

“You’re too kind,” said Luther, calmly. “But if I’d have known you were going to be so generous, I’d have brought a gift.”

“Your company is a gift in itself,” replied Stark, “and I have made sure that I have a gift for you as well.”

Stark motioned upwards with his right hand and the blonde haired woman jerked, her head snapping up so that she was staring at them.

“Marjorie,” blurted Donald, recognising his fiancée in that instant, “what on Earth are you doing here?”

But Marjorie appeared not to see Donald, she just stared blankly and silently at them.

“You had been hoping to surprise me, I understand” said Stark, his voice a low hiss, “so I thought that it was only fair I surprised you.”

Donald ran forward, taking Marjorie’s hand but she made no sign of having noticed him.

“What have you done to her, you scoundrel?” said Donald, his voice shaking.

“Just a hint of my powers,” smiled Stark, and Luther was immediately reminded of a snake. “Just a hint, since we have a sceptic in our midst.”

“My reputation clearly precedes me.” said Luther, coldly.

“When you go around asking questions about me, I hear about it,” said Stark. “And so I began to ask questions about you. And I was told that you don’t believe in the supernatural, that you like to believe that everything can be explained away by science. I was told that you actively seek out those who appear to be supernaturally gifted, and you debunk them.”

“You are correct,” said Luther, “it gives me great pleasure to expose those who would prey on the naïve beliefs of others.”

“Thus, I thought that today would be a good one for us to meet. For you to appreciate how little you and your science,” he spoke the word with distaste, “truly understand. Marjorie is mine now, she is mine body and soul.”

“Well, if this was all for my benefit then I’m afraid you’re going to have to try harder than that, Mr. Stark.” said Luther, cocking an eyebrow. “The girl could have been drugged, or hypnotised. I see nothing here that causes me to believe you’re invested with supernatural powers.”

“Then perhaps a fuller demonstration of my powers is in order, Mr. Basterfield,” said Stark with a grin that exposed his teeth. He turned to Marjorie, “why don’t you show your fiancée how much you’ve changed since you met me?”

The transformation was instant and horrifying; one moment Marjorie was the same woman that Luther had seen on several occasions, the next her face seemed to shudder and shake and her lips peeled back to reveal not teeth but fangs. And then, before Donald even had time to react, she was on him; her hands suddenly claws that clutched him hard, her fangs biting down hard into the side of his neck. She tore into his carotid artery in an instant, drinking greedily as his lifeblood flowed in her mouth and out around her lips and down onto her dress. Donald Craig was dead before his body hit the floor.

“And now do you appreciate?” laughed Stark, and his face began to shudder and his lips peeled back horribly to reveal huge fangs. ”Now do you understand why you should never have come into my world.

Luther heard footsteps echo loudly off the floor behind him at the two butlers entered the room and locked the double doors tightly shut. The dark haired woman was changing as well, her face contorting as she ripped off her blue mask and tossed it to the floor.

“You’re vampires,” said Luther slowly. “You really are vampires.”

“Do you have any last words, before we feast on you and tear you limb from limb?”

“Well, before you do that,” said Luther, with a cold smile, “and in this spirit of sharing secrets, I think it’s only fair that I tell you my real name.”

He stood straight, one hand fixing his bowtie, and the whole room seemed to darken a little.

“Before I was Luther Basterfield, I was called Henry Wrenwright and I lived in New York City. Before that I was called Toby van Dijk and I lived in Amsterdam. Before that…” Luther let the words trail off, “well, to cut a very long story short, I’ve had lots of names. Although for some reason, people always seem to remember the first one.”

The lights in the room flickered and the vampires looked to each other with nervousness. A feeling so old to them, it took them a moment to even recognise it.

“What are you?” asked Stark, his voice no longer commanding.

“When He made me,” said Luther, “He named me Lucifer.”

They bowed before him then. They grovelled, they begged. They pleaded and bargained. It meant nothing to him and, one by one, he extinguished them and claimed their souls as his own.

“Why?” asked Stark, when he alone was left quailing before him. “We do not do His work. Why us? Why not these humans? Why not feed on their souls?”

“Because,” said Lucifer, reaching out one hand casually and plucking Stark’s twisted and rotten soul from his body as easily as one might pull taffy from a stick, “I’ve no interest in anything that’s not been properly aged.”