VI. Vertices in the Infinite Angled Universe

Herr Raubtier rises from his seat. “It is time to tend to our… sick,” he says, checking his pocketwatch.

“Why?” Dorian asks.

“He means to feed them,” Mami Hrobar says.

“How do you feed them if they’re locked up?”

“Is simple,” she replies. “We drop bladder of blood down chimney, let them fight like dogs.”

“You’re feeding them? That sounds… unorthodox,” Penelope says. “They would be easier to contain if they were too weak to move.”

“Starvation is fatal for vampires and, despite their being vampires now, they were once people too – our people,” Herr Raubtier says, standing over her. “You understand that medical doctors take certain oaths upon entering the profession, yes?”

Penelope meets him face to face, with a scowl slowly turning into a sneer. She feels something akin to hate bubbling up, this overbearing man leering down over her as if she were an ignorant child. Her fury is beautiful, stunning, daring, a force of will that could carry the Light.

Herr Raubtier chuckles and leads the Hrobars out of the kitchen. Mami Hrobar follows him first, turning back towards the snoring Doctor Arthwitte thrice before exiting. “We will wait until morning to be sure on this one,” she says. “If not, we lock him up as well. Come, husband.”

Bapo Hrobar rolls up his sleeves then shuffles out behind them. With his arm exposed, the children can see a fresh bandage. Perhaps he was wounded in their return, or perhaps Bapo Hrobar is the blood source feeding the former villagers.

Once the door is closed Penelope digs through the contents of Doctor Arthwitte’s bag until she finds his trusty vial of smelling salts. She uncorks the stopper and waves it underneath his nose. With a snore that turns into an abrupt snort, Doctor Arthwitte sits upright. He blinks his squinted eyes until they adjust to the dim lamplight.

“Oh dear! – it appears my baggage was spilled upon the table.”

“You passed out,” Dorian says.

“Thank you, dear,” Doctor Arthwitte says as Penelope helps him out of his seat. “Let’s get out of this room, I find it altogether malodorous. Either that or this pounding in my head is the work of some spiritual assault. All these damned ceremonial wards, who knows what sort of spirit may walk these halls.”

Penelope rolls her eyes and suppresses the urge to point out that his spiritual malady may be hangover, not a mental attack. At least, she hopes that his migraine stems from the drink, or the after effects of Herr Martin’s serum, but fear prods at the back of her mind. Fear that this headache is one of the first symptoms of the change.

“Come on,” she says. “We should find a room.”

“I am more than capable of walking, my dear.” Doctor Arthwitte pushes his chair aside and takes three steps forward. The fourth step proves to be his undoing. His ankle buckles and the back of a chair catches him. “Don’t be alarmed. Simply a touch light headed from the spirits.”

“We should call it a night,” Penelope says. “We can get to work in the morning.”

Leaving the kitchen and approaching the hall, she passes by two large windows. Outside Herr Raubtier, Mami Hrobar, and her husband are performing what, she assumes, is their nightly ritual.

Herr Raubtier and Mami Hrobar pass the first two houses with lit candles. Since one is a pile of ashes, and the other is now vacated, they move on to the next row after some words from Mami hrobar and a station of the cross. She then pivots to her right and makes a sign of the cross in front of the next house’s door while her husband retrieves a wooden ladder. The rails bend under the giant man’s weight but he safely ascends and, with uneven, precarious footing he makes his wy to the stone chimney with a small bladder filled with blood.

“Bah, never mind them. Come away from the window,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “We’ve work to do.” He removes the parchment wrapped mushroom from his vest pocket and whiffs the stalk. “Phantasmagorical,” he says with a sigh of relief. “That insufferable clatter in my head is already stifling.”

“Perhaps I could help then.” Angelica Mathers steps out of the darkened hall carrying a stack of folded linens with both hands. The dark lines of mascara dripping from her eyes have been wiped away, but their vague impression lingers. “I thought some fresh clothing would brighten everyone’s mood.”

“Ah, madame, your hospitality rivals that of the Bogd Khaan,” Doctor Arthwitte says with a bow. “I must greet the Lady of the realm with due deference.”

Angelica shakes her head and hands her folded stack of clothes to Dorian. “I’ll have to ask that you not dote on any title. I shouldn’t have run out like that.”

“We should probably help Doctor Arthwitte get to bed first,” Penelope says. “Is there a room where we can sleep?”

“Certainly,” Angelica says with a smile. She leads them down the hallway to their right. “We have a large room in the back. It used to be for guests, but–”

“People actually came out here before all of this?” Dorian asks.

Penelope gently elbows her brother. “What he means is that this town is so… removed and quiet, it’s odd to find a guest room here.”

“Well,” Angelica says as she cracks the door open. “This is no ordinary house.” She winks at Dorian. “I used to hate coming out here as a little girl too. I never did feel safe in this place.” She comes to a door at the end of the darkned hall and unlatches it. Inside the room is pitch black. “It was always too dark. No electricity.”

“Do we need candles?” Penelope asks.

“Never to worry,” Doctor Arthwitte replies. He walks ahead of her into the inky black with both hands outstretched, feeling the air about him. When he finds the wall to his side, he straifs it. “I’ve a matchbook in my satchel, fetch it and we’ll light up the room.”

Angelica says, “There’s a lamp by the–”

The crash and shatter of glass interrupts her.

“Naught worth a fret! I’ll find another.”

“I left the lantern on the porch.” Penelope strolls down the hallway and passes three pairs of doors before she hears the all too familiar disembodied voice of Aleister Crowley.

“Penelope,” he says. “Penelope Theophania MacClane.”

“I told you not to do that anymore.”

“The ingratitude! You did not chide me so when I warned you about the Dutch ambush in South Africa.”

“Fine,” Penelope mutters as she steps into the foyer. “Then what’s so pertinent that you have to invade my head this time?”

“I am not capable of invading your head, as you so vulgarly put it. I am only capable of transmitting my will when the protective magick around you allows me.”

“Protective magick?” Penelope asks. “You mean like one of Doctor Arthwitte’s potions?”

“The alchemist is a buffoon and a charlatan. He knows nothing of the magicks of which I speak: of the magick that birthed the world as we know it. The magick surrounding you and your brother. The magick that was cast by your sister years ago, which you must now complete.”

Penelope reaches the foyer and peers through the window. The electric lantern sits on the table where she left it. Herr Raubtier and the Hrobars are at the far end of the village. Standing by the well, looking directly back at her, is Aleister Crowley. He says nothing, neither with his mouth or his mind.

“Did you find the lantern?” Dorian asks, walking up beside her. “The doctor slipped and now he’s soaked in oil – is that Crowley?”

Penelope shakes her head. “What? Yes.”

“He’s speaking into your head again, isn’t he,” Dorian says, disappointed. “Never speaks into my head.”

“He’s telling me to follow him.”

Crowley billows his cape and absconds into the wilderness.

“Like I’d want to go anywhere with that lunatic,” Dorian says. “I’ll stay here where the Nosferatus can’t get in.”

“Don’t you mean, where Marcel can’t get in?” Penelope says as she opens the front door. She takes the lantern from the table and hands it to Dorian. “Give this to Doctor Arthwitte before he sets himself on fire.”

“You’re following him? Just because he’s saved us a few times is no reason to go off alone with him. He’s crazy.”

“So is Doctor Arthwitte,” Penelope says. “So was Olivia. And I guess… so am I.”

She runs towards the well then veers off to the right in pursuit of Aleister Crowley. Taking the dirt path which traces the side of the manor, she follows the curve and stops in front of the tall iron gates of a large cemetery. A flash of violet catches her eyes and she spies him, marching into the thick of the forest.

“Where are we going?” Penelope asks.

“Come.”

“Why do you always command me like that?” Penelope asks.

Aleister Crowley faces her and speaks aloud, his voice firm. “When invoking the power of divine beings, one must ask as if in solemn prayer to God. But for the agents of Chaos, one must always command lest he be trampled underfoot by what he calls forth.”

“Chaos?” Penelope asks, offended. “What does that mean?”

“Little girl, you are the most chaotic force which exists in our world,” Crowley says. “You are an idealist. Worse, yours is a Will that could enact unspeakable change in a world of etropy and stagnation.”

“Why would the ‘wicked man in the world’ care about that?”

“There are more wicked things in this world than you or I dare fathom. These vampires to which you have born witness are but a ruse belying a deeper evil. Your true enemy is something more ancient and alien. Behold!”

With the flick of his wrist and a twirl of his cape, Aleister Crowley stands aside to reveal a one-room shack. It is ordinary, a thoroughly nondescript lean-to, but the ring dirt mounds encircling it is thoroughly un-ordinary. They are not large, like serving bowls turned upside down and covered in earth, but no grass grows on or near them.

“These are anchors of the art.” Aleister Crowley says in my sister’s mine as she approaches the nearest skull and crouches to inspect it. “I’ve counted nine in total – I dread the implications behind such a number.”

“What’s so special about the number nine?”

“The question and the answer are both irrelevant. Eons could be wasted on such a matters. Now, observe the entrance to this ramshackle abode.”

The door has no handle, no visible lock. No ropes or binding holds it in place and yet it remains perfectly closed. Aleister Crowley approaches and pushes on it, then pulls, gripping the edge of the wooden portal with both hands. No matter how he exerts himself, the door does not budge.

“You said that Olivia’s magick was protecting me,” Penelope says. “Protecting me from what?”

“From the roiling abyss which lurks within the hearts and minds of all living things,” Aleister Crowley says. “The Greatest Evil I’ve ever encountered in my occult studies – elemental beings who live among us disguised as humans. I did not name them psychic vampires, but I see little reason to disagree with it.”

“Psychic vampires?” Penelope asks. “I thought the elementals were the four elements, you know, Salamanders, Gnomes–”

“They are but lesser elementals,” Aleister Crowley says. “Beyond the veil of that which we see and hear is all that ever could be: one world with infinite angles. We are but icebergs whose tips breach the surface of an infinite ocean. I speak of the world of the mind; where the unseen and unknown dwell. The imagination, dreams–”

“Imagination? Dreams?” Penelope scoffs. “Someone dreamed the vampires into being?”

“We are but antennae, Lady MacClane. Dolls of clay given life by the pull of invisible strands – but they are not exactly like us: they can manipulate reality to their will in ways no human has ever achieved. No human except for your sister.”

Penelope shakes her head. “No, Olivia was an archeologist, she studied history and anthropology, she wasn’t a–”

“She was my student, and I one of her teachers,” Aleister Crowley says, gravely. “The only one worth mention, frankly. She could conjure and bind the infernal forces even better than I.”

“She summoned demons?”

“Demons, angels, all of the elementals, even the gods of the world’s oldest religions,” Aleister Crowley says. “It was she who uncovered the Watchers and their plot to replace mankind.”

“Watchers? What about the Nosferatus?”

Crowley smirks. “Their hounds: hunting dogs, nothing more. I assume, in this instance, to distract from their own feeding. Deception is a hallmark of the psychic vampire. They are privy to our dreams and innermost beliefs, and they know all too well how to deceive us.”

“And they chose this place in the middle of nowhere? Why not a city with more people to feed on?”

“Every world government, religion, and corporation of economic import holds at least a few of them within its upper echelon. These monsters, these Nosferatus, are little more than beasts of burden to them.” Crowley stares down at her, ominously. “When their army is here, it will already be too late.”

“So then how do we stop them?”

Aleister Crowley shrugs and strolls away from the cabin. “That I do not know. Olivia knew. It was why she went to Antarctica, to defeat her ‘Great Enemy’. By then, she had her own occult subjects, defectors, traitors, rivals. When she vanished, some forfeited her secrets to this ‘Great Enemy’ so they would be spared.”

He points towards the cabin.

“Inside this impenetrable little shed is a book; a book which originally belonged to your sister. It was this book which conjured forth these blood drinking abominations. That book, and only that book, will answer your questions.”

Penelope nudges the mound with her foot. When it does not move, she picks up a rock so heavy that it takes both of her arms to carry it.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing a hypothesis.” With a heave backwards for leverage then a ho forwards for impact, Penelope brings her rock down on it. A flash of blue-white light, a crackle of energy spirals out of the ground, and her rock soars into the window, repels away and flies out into the wilderness.

The glass remains unmarked.

Aleister Crowley whips his cloak. “To humans, manifesting our desires in this world demand years, if not whole lifetimes of commitment. To the psychic vampire, it is intuitive by birth. Not simply good fortune or persuasion: telepathy, telekinesis, even the manifestion of force, these are to them as breathing is to us. But their power is not absolute: they are abberations, invaders of our angle. They do not have a life energy within themselves, and must consume it from others, lest they perish from this world.”

“How?”

“They have many avenues of sustenance. They drink deep of our misery, our pain, our joy, our fear. Many of them are born into this world unaware of their origin, fated to drift through a hollow, incomplete life, always relying upon others for aid. Has anyone ever come to you in tears or stricken with fear, only to leave feeling happy or calm while you are tired and anxious? Have you ever found someone so emotionally burdensome that it felt as though they were sucking away your life? Have you ever met a person so tedious that every moment with them was filled with the inexorable awareness that it was a moment of your life that was inextricably lost forever?”

Penelope feels that way right now. “A psychic vampire could be anyone by that logic. Regular people are like that.”

“You may believe what you will,” Aleister Crowley says, stopping directly in front of her. His black eyes do not stray a beat. “Humans have debated all manner of subjects throughout history: the presence of God, the meaning of life, destiny, the human heart and desire. Of all the pomp and buffoonery there are only two subjects upon which all agree: the existence of spirits and of a universal life force.”

“Sure, and most people believe that everyone has a conscience,” Penelope says. “Evidence proves the contrary.”

“The Chinese call it qi, to the Hindu it is known as prana, the Greeks pneuma, to the Hebrew it was ruach, and in Latin it was spiritus for inspiration. Even some among the sciences today call it orgone,” Aleister Crowley says, wistfully, “or perhaps the Vril-ya; it is the spark which ignites in the head and the heart. It is the forze vitae which the psychic vampires crave.”

“Then how do you expect me to stop them?” Penelope asks. “I’m not Olivia.”

“Olivia was your age when she became my student,” Aleister Crowley says. “Magick is an arte which any can master through diligence, but natural affinity is born by blood – and it is that same blood which runs through your veins. If there is anyone alive who can stop them, it is you.”

“How am I supposed to figure out who it is?” Penelope asks. “I find everyone tiresome and draining.”

Aleister Crowley smirks.

“What?”

“You merely remind me of a former student. Psychic vampires understand our fear of mortality and meaninglessness; they know how to wield religion as a weapon. Above all else, they command obedience and respect.”

Mami Hrobar is devoutly religious. She is the villagers’ sole guardian for all matters of warding off the vampires, and she claims to know the most about them. Meanwhile, her dutiful husband is always tired, affectless, and chained to her side.

Almost as if he were enthralled.

“What else?” Penelope asks.

“Science is equally their interest, few if any can understand it, and so the psychic vampires know that a manipulated statistic or flawed experiment can be as compelling as the truth – perhaps moreso, if their lie is preferable.”

“Herr Raubtier,” Penelope murmurs out loud. His cold demeanor and caustic temperament were the perfect example of psychic vampirism, his every utterance bristling.

“Above all else, the psychic vampires need–” He presses his hand to his temple as if overcome by a sudden migraine.

“What’s wrong?” Penelope asks. “Is it a psychic attack?”

“Your brother,” Aleister Crowley hisses through clenched teeth. “He is in danger.”

“Are you casting magick on us too?” Penelope asks. “Does everyone just go around casting spells on people without telling them?!”

“It is the price for meddling in your sister’s magick. I have been residually tied to her spell over you both for some time.” He doubles over as if being disemboweled and points to the east. “Hurry! He could perish this very instant!”

Penelope does not wait. With bounding strides she races back through the brush. At first she sees my iridescent orb of light flickering in the distance, but as she approaches, my sister recognizes the torches burning on the side of the mansion. A porch column has been crushed in at the middle. Another is completely ripped from the house and laying on the ground. Both of the front doors are thrown open.

Penelope climbs the stairs and finds Angelica Mathers’ night cap. The same night cap which she gave to Dorian. Picking it up, she feels a fresh, sticky wetness underneath. My sister turns her hand over to see that her palm is wet with blood.