Crimson Death
Page 149

   “I told you what he was, what they all were.”
   “You said he was a tiger in man form, and golden, but you did not tell me he was a witch.”
   “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a witch,” Dev said, trying for light and cheery in the face of her disapproval.
   “Dev . . . Devereux isn’t a witch,” I said.
   “If you believe that, then you do not know his worth, Anita.”
   “Maybe we’re defining the term witch differently,” I said.
   “What do you see when you look at me, Devereux?” Nim said.
   “What there is to see,” Dev said with a smile, but his hands stroked against our faces. It was a reassuring gesture; I just wasn’t sure if he was reassuring himself, us, or both.
   I raised my hand up to touch his hand where he cupped my cheek. It looked loving and gentle, and it was, but what I said next was neither of those things. “What does it matter what he sees or doesn’t see? I thought we were here to discuss your vampire problem and why the metaphysics in Dublin have changed after a thousand years.”
   She sat up a little straighter, using her cane to push herself forward. She was wearing black lace gloves on her hands, so I couldn’t see if her hands matched her face. I’d never seen anyone wear gloves like those outside of a historical drama. “What do you mean, my vampire problem, Anita?”
   “I meant Dublin’s vampire problem. Since you live here, it’s sort of your problem, too, right?”
   Was it my imagination or did she relax when I said it that way? What was it about what I’d said first that had bothered her so much? I made a mental note to ask the men later if they could figure it out, because it had bothered her. I just had no idea why.
   “I was a part of this place before the humans named it Black Pool.”
   Flannery added, “That’s basically what Dublin means, Black Pool.”
   “Then do you know why vampires are suddenly rising in such numbers here?”
   She put both hands on the head of her cane, flexing them around the well-worn wood of it. Her gray eyes darkened to a dark charcoal gray like the sky before a rainstorm. “Death magic.”
   “It was one reason that we didn’t want another necromancer here,” Flannery said.
   “So you think that a necromancer is behind your vampires?” I asked.
   Auntie Nim turned those storm-colored eyes to me. It made me sit back a little and involuntarily clutch Nathaniel’s hand harder and press Dev’s hand tighter against my face. He responded by rubbing along the line of my jaw, which felt great, but also felt a little too touchy-feely for a meeting that had anything remotely police oriented about it. I still didn’t make him stop touching me; there was something about it that helped keep my head clear.
   “If it is not true necromancy, then it is a type of vampire we have never seen. It is as if whoever is behind all our troubles is drinking far more than mere blood. It is drinking the life, the magic, from the very earth of Dublin.” Auntie Nim’s face was grim, her eyes full of a fierceness that would probably have been hidden behind sunshine and birdsong if Dev hadn’t been touching us. She didn’t look like your favorite grandma now. She looked predatory, like something that would hurt you. The charcoal gray of her eyes was almost black with anger, or fear, or some emotion I couldn’t understand.
   “I’m a necromancer and I’m pretty up close and personal with the vampires, but I don’t know any of them that could do what you’re describing,” I said.
   “The vampire that was mistress of Ireland before she lost control can feed upon fear,” Nim said.
   I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve met other vampires that could do it, but no one as good as she was once.”
   “Do you know for certain that she lost power? Why couldn’t she be the one behind all these new vampires?” Nathaniel asked.
   It was a little odd for him to be asking the crime-busting questions, but they were good questions, so I just waited for some good answers to match them.
   “Moroven was never a necromancer. It is not her magic.”
   “Did you know her before she became a vampire?” I asked.
   “I did, and she was never a necromancer, a fearful thing in her way, but she never possessed power over the dead.”
   “What made her fearful in her way?”
   “You know she is a night hag who can feed upon fear.”
   “Yes, but that’s a power she gained after she became a vampire.”
   “No, she was always able to feed on nightmares and terror.”
   “Really?” I said. “I’ve never met a person who could do that unless it was a talent they acquired after they became a master vampire.”
   “Is night hag what you call those once human who can feed on fear in vampire form?”
   “Yes.”
   “Then she is more than that and we must add new words to her power. She can cause terror in others so that she may feed upon it.”
   “Damian has memories of her doing terrible things,” Nathaniel said. “Anyone would be afraid after that.”
   The old woman shook her head. “No, Graison, I do not mean she frightened people with torture and then fed upon their emotion. I mean she could cause fear in someone with a touch, or less, and feed upon that.”
   “You’re saying that the fear she was able to cause in Damian wasn’t just from his memories of her?”
   “I am saying that she was a mara, a nightmare, able to create fear so she could feast upon it.”
   “Wait. You mean she could feed on people in their dreams, not just when they were awake?”
   “She began as something that fed on bad dreams, took them away from the sleepers, helped take away their night terrors, but over the long years, she turned her gift into something less gentle. If there were not enough nightmares to feed upon, she would enter people’s sleep and give them bad dreams so she could feed.”
   “Are you saying she was supposed to be a sort of dream keeper and help people have fewer nightmares?” I asked.
   “In the beginning.”
   Flannery added, “The authorities here have seen a few night hags over the years: people who fed on bad dreams, but the more they fed, the worse the dreams got and they drained the person’s life away through the nightmares.”
   “You have people in Ireland that are that good at feeding through dreams?” I asked.
   “It’s common enough here to be classed as a psychic ability.”
   “Not magic,” I said.