Verse of the Vampyre Read Online Free
Author: Diana Killian
umbrella.
“Afternoon, dearies!” she chirped.
An apple-cheeked dumpling of a woman with a mop of gray curls, Mrs. Mac could have passed for the grandmotherly type except for the sharp cold of her faded blue eyes.
“Wet through, I am.” Mrs. Mac dropped her umbrella and heavy carpetbag on the counter. “Such a to-do in the village!” Her eyes twinkled with wicked pleasure. “I could do with a cuppa.” She started for the stockroom, shedding her black raincoat as she went.
“Neither rain nor wind nor sleet nor snow,” said Grace.
Peter said, “I was thinking more along the lines of ’In thunder, lightning or in rain.’ ”
Grace chuckled at the reference to Macbeth. Mrs. Mac did look a bit like a witch.
“What’s happened in the village?” she asked, when Mrs. Mac returned, mug in hand.
Mrs. Mac made an unlovely sucking sound at her tea before pronouncing, “Vandalism. Someone spray painted the side of the chapel.”
“Obscenities?” Grace inquired. Peter had already lost interest. Vandalism was not his idea of crime.
“No, no.” Mrs. Mac chortled. “It said, ‘The vampire walks’!”
2
T he gallery windows flashed white, and with the kind of timing for which amateur theater productions are famous, Mrs. Mac’s startling announcement was nearly lost in a deafening crack. Thunder boomed so loud it sounded artificial. The lamps flickered, then brightened. Above them, the suspended mermaid swayed gently, cresting invisible seas.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Peter drawled, as the rumble faded away, and Mrs. Mac laughed uneasily.
Grace barely heard them, blinking at the recollection of the caped figure of Lord Ruthven flitting around the graveyard the night before. “Could the graffiti be publicity for the play?” she suggested doubtfully.
Mrs. Mac cackled, though whether in agreement or derision was impossible to know. She hied off to begin her afternoon’s chores. Mrs. Mac might look prone to shortcuts and sweeping under the carpet, but when it came to cleaning, whether by mop or magic wand, she got results.
“Publicity?” Peter inquired, raising one black eyebrow in a characteristic gesture.
“Lord Ruthven’s a tad eccentric.”
“Vandalizing a church is a lot eccentric.” Peter had surprising streaks of conservatism—surprising considering his criminal background.
“It’s probably just some kids acting up. Halloween is only a couple of weeks away.”
Before moving to Innisdale, Grace had been under the impression that the British did not celebrate Halloween. It turned out that while trick-or-treating did not seem to be a local tradition, there was an annual village fete to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve. Perhaps that explained Lord Ruthven’s costume, but somehow she didn’t think so.
“Very likely. Did you want to redo the pottery display?”
Grace spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging the newly acquired Staffordshire pottery amongst the other pieces artfully displayed on the furniture throughout the shop.
It was hard not to become attached to some of these treasures. She had been sorry when the merry-go-round horse that had sat in the bow window the day she first found Rogue’s Gallery was sold. Perhaps in some secret corner of her mind she had pictured that merry-go-round horse in a particular nursery. Now the window shelf was filled with a collection of Victorian children’s toys, including a tall penny-farthing cycle and porcelain dolls.
It was getting dark when Mrs. Mac, the day’s hurly-burly done, came downstairs. She gathered her things.
“G’night, dearie!” she called to Grace. The rain was thundering down. It poured off the eaves and splashed on the stone walk as Mrs. Mac opened the front door.
Grace called good night. It was closing time and, with rehearsal tonight, she, too, should be leaving. She wondered if Peter would ask her to stay to dinner. Up until a few weeks ago, she had taken these invitations for granted. What did he do
“Afternoon, dearies!” she chirped.
An apple-cheeked dumpling of a woman with a mop of gray curls, Mrs. Mac could have passed for the grandmotherly type except for the sharp cold of her faded blue eyes.
“Wet through, I am.” Mrs. Mac dropped her umbrella and heavy carpetbag on the counter. “Such a to-do in the village!” Her eyes twinkled with wicked pleasure. “I could do with a cuppa.” She started for the stockroom, shedding her black raincoat as she went.
“Neither rain nor wind nor sleet nor snow,” said Grace.
Peter said, “I was thinking more along the lines of ’In thunder, lightning or in rain.’ ”
Grace chuckled at the reference to Macbeth. Mrs. Mac did look a bit like a witch.
“What’s happened in the village?” she asked, when Mrs. Mac returned, mug in hand.
Mrs. Mac made an unlovely sucking sound at her tea before pronouncing, “Vandalism. Someone spray painted the side of the chapel.”
“Obscenities?” Grace inquired. Peter had already lost interest. Vandalism was not his idea of crime.
“No, no.” Mrs. Mac chortled. “It said, ‘The vampire walks’!”
2
T he gallery windows flashed white, and with the kind of timing for which amateur theater productions are famous, Mrs. Mac’s startling announcement was nearly lost in a deafening crack. Thunder boomed so loud it sounded artificial. The lamps flickered, then brightened. Above them, the suspended mermaid swayed gently, cresting invisible seas.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Peter drawled, as the rumble faded away, and Mrs. Mac laughed uneasily.
Grace barely heard them, blinking at the recollection of the caped figure of Lord Ruthven flitting around the graveyard the night before. “Could the graffiti be publicity for the play?” she suggested doubtfully.
Mrs. Mac cackled, though whether in agreement or derision was impossible to know. She hied off to begin her afternoon’s chores. Mrs. Mac might look prone to shortcuts and sweeping under the carpet, but when it came to cleaning, whether by mop or magic wand, she got results.
“Publicity?” Peter inquired, raising one black eyebrow in a characteristic gesture.
“Lord Ruthven’s a tad eccentric.”
“Vandalizing a church is a lot eccentric.” Peter had surprising streaks of conservatism—surprising considering his criminal background.
“It’s probably just some kids acting up. Halloween is only a couple of weeks away.”
Before moving to Innisdale, Grace had been under the impression that the British did not celebrate Halloween. It turned out that while trick-or-treating did not seem to be a local tradition, there was an annual village fete to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve. Perhaps that explained Lord Ruthven’s costume, but somehow she didn’t think so.
“Very likely. Did you want to redo the pottery display?”
Grace spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging the newly acquired Staffordshire pottery amongst the other pieces artfully displayed on the furniture throughout the shop.
It was hard not to become attached to some of these treasures. She had been sorry when the merry-go-round horse that had sat in the bow window the day she first found Rogue’s Gallery was sold. Perhaps in some secret corner of her mind she had pictured that merry-go-round horse in a particular nursery. Now the window shelf was filled with a collection of Victorian children’s toys, including a tall penny-farthing cycle and porcelain dolls.
It was getting dark when Mrs. Mac, the day’s hurly-burly done, came downstairs. She gathered her things.
“G’night, dearie!” she called to Grace. The rain was thundering down. It poured off the eaves and splashed on the stone walk as Mrs. Mac opened the front door.
Grace called good night. It was closing time and, with rehearsal tonight, she, too, should be leaving. She wondered if Peter would ask her to stay to dinner. Up until a few weeks ago, she had taken these invitations for granted. What did he do
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