Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Doctor Polidori settled the oars and lay back, allowing the boat to drift on. He even dared loosen his cravat. It was perhaps nine o’clock in the evening, a pleasant supper of pheasant and wine at Villa Diodati still warming his body and thoughts. An oil lamp at his knee highlighted every cushion and plank of the rowboat’s interior. Yet the lapping water of Lake Geneva was, as far as Polidori could discern, impenetrably black. The shore was a thin, mist-shrouded line—blurred pinpoints of light escaping from chalets and villas through drawn curtains and shutters. The Alps rose dark and jagged in the distance, surmounted by snow that appeared ice-black in the starlight. The air was chilled and damp. Polidori pulled a cigar from his frock coat pocket, cut off the end, and lit it. With one arm cradling his head, he pressed his lips around the sweet vessel of succor, his attention on the dense clusters of stars above. A lavender-scented puff of smoke occluded the visage but a moment before being nudged aside by a breeze. He rocked amongst the constellations, hoping for inspiration.

The rain of the past week had abated; indeed there was no sign of cloud. Polidori wondered that there was no moon but knew it was best not wasted, knowing he couldn’t share it with the one who made his heart ache. He closed his eyes, drew on the cigar, and held his breath until he felt light-headed. No doubt Lord Byron was somewhere thinking of him, too. Probably still chuckling at Polidori’s idea for the ghost story competition.

* * *

After the last terrible tale from Phantasmagoria had been told the previous week, everyone present in Villa Diodati’s drawing room had sat in horrified silence. Lord George Byron and Miss Claire Clairmont had gazed into the fire, Mary into the depths of her sherry. Percy had sipped tentatively at a thimble glass of laudanum, his eyes wide. Polidori had stood by the window, his thoughts lost in the incessant rain. He’d turned when he’d heard Mary chuckle.

“I daresay I have never heard you utter such preposterous prose, Lord Byron,” she said. “The idea anyone would be frightened by that phantasm tale makes me wonder at the sanity of its author and publisher.”

Lord Byron laughed. “Perhaps it lost something in the translation from German to French.” He pulled Miss Clairmont into his side. “Were you frightened, my dear?” Miss Clairmont blushed. “John, come out from amongst the curtains and tell me whether you were frightened,” Lord Byron said as he strode across the room and gripped Doctor Polidori’s shoulders. Polidori stiffened, the familiar scent of breath on his neck, the accustomed warmth of the Lord’s hands upon him. But never in the company of others. Polidori’s blush went deeper than Miss Clairmont’s.

“I believe any of us could write tales of horror with more impact and consequence than any of these naive ghost stories.” Polidori said.

Lord Byron’s hands lingered, his thumb pulling Polidori’s cravat down below the collar to expose the bare, flushed skin of his neck. They held each other’s gaze in their reflection in the rain-streaked window.

* * *

Polidori’s rowboat suddenly skimmed the crest of a swell, and the cigar smoke idled from his mouth as his lips curled in inspiration.