Neither Blood Nor Seed

"Nobody's forcing you to look, copper," she jeered, but by that time Norris had retreated back into his kitchen with the superintendent. "Besides, you've got my clothes." Both men made a point of looking away as she swung her legs off the side of the bed and stretched long and languorously. "Shower's upstairs, padre?"

"There are towels in the closet up there," Norris replied distantly, keenly aware she was naked and just as keenly aware she'd notice if he looked. "Then, well, there are clothes as well. I laid them out this morning."

"Bendigedig!" She sauntered off toward the stairs at the far end of the room, humming a tune.

"She seems not to be so saddened about Mr McCormick," the superintendent muttered after a decent interval.

"She was much more upset last night, when we arrived," Norris managed. The girl was making him think highly impure thoughts, and he was still missing his morning devotions.

"If she's been here all night, that helps clear her." The policeman's voice had finally sunk. "The second murder was similar to the first, but a local. Adam Rees, from over near Cwm Goch. If she didn't do this one, she probably didn't do the first."

"Another... beheading?" Norris gasped.

"As near as," Wynn sighed. "Head's still attached, but barely. Body drained of blood. Faint bruising. Same as McCormick." He watched as Norris pulled the lead box out of his bag. "That might be our only clue, as sorry as that sounds." He peered at the box. "I think a hacksaw? Tin snips, even, if you've got any. Or surely a Foredom tool. I think it's been opened that way before." He fingered the bright line of solder, lumpen like a surgical scar.

Norris had never heard of a Foredom tool. "There are some snips in the basement, I believe."

The policeman gestured toward the kitchen. "I'll wait for you here. Shall I put a kettle on?"

"Oh, please do." And that was how Cassandra found them some fifteen minutes later, bent seriously over the dully shining box with a rusty pair of snips. "That was not a long shower," Norris observed, glancing over at her. He was very relieved to see her dressed.

"I am not a complicated woman." She sniffed, peering at the kettle. "No coffee?"

Norris straightened as the superintendent tried to wedge the nippers through the side of the case without stabbing his other hand. "There's more than enough tea, Cassie."

"Tea don't get it done," she groused, "not in the morning." She topped off one of the mugs, though, and leant against the side of the counter. She'd found a T-shirt and a pair of short pants, though her feet were bare. "Oh. That's the box you showed me last night."

"It was found in the church where you and Mr McCormick had your ill-advised tryst," Wynn sniffed. He twirled the snips, boring deep into the side of the thing, a shining silver hole forming. "I think I've got it. This is thick."

"It's addressed to, well, me," Norris added, glancing up at his guest. She looked fresh, clean in the light streaming through the windows. He swallowed. "Or, a predecessor I suppose."

She stooped over the table, peering down as the superintendent began to cut one end carefully off. "Looks old," she decided.

"Tawelwch, merch," he muttered softly, his strong hands driving the tin snips through the old lead, and the girl shut her mouth with a near-audible snap. The side of the box peeled away slowly, revealing nothing within but dusty darkness and a dry smell like old cloth. "Torch, parson?"

Norris turned his smartphone flashlight on and pointed it hopefully toward the open end of the box as the superintendent pulled at it with a pair of pliers, carefully avoiding the jagged old metal. They crowded close to peer inside. "Looks like paper?"

"Something folded," Wynn agreed. He tipped the lead box gently downward, shaking it softly until, with a dusty thump, a small thick envelope plopped out, blobbed by a dull red wax seal. "There it is," he muttered, satisfied. He studied the seal. "Can't make it out."

But Norris could: a shield, with a diagonal stripe passing downward in a rain of what looked like little sperms, then a star in the top and bottom corners. "Interesting." It was the seal of the Diocese of Bangor. Norris went to reach for the envelope, but at the last moment he used the pliers instead. He nudged the thing carefully over onto its front, where bold script heralded an address across the front in very dark ink, a repetition of the engraving on the outside of the box. "The Vicar of Christ in Llantarff," he marveled in a low voice.

"That's you, innit?" Wynn watched Norris closely. Off to the side, Cassie had her hand over her mouth.

"I suppose it is," Norris sighed slowly. Of five months' tenure, but still. Llantarff Chapel stood just across the churchyard out the kitchen window. "I'd need to look it up, but I suppose the old church under the Reservoir once belonged to this parish." He tapped the thick paper, feeling the way it gave, and realized this wasn't really an envelope: it was a letter, folded into the shape of an envelope. Popping off the wax seal would make the whole thing unfold like a springtime flower.

So? He popped off the wax seal. Only to find it had been broken before, a dull pink ring impressed into the paper.

He unfolded the letter, not at all ready when a piece of more modern paper fluttered out with the remains of some cellophane tape clinging to it. "Interesting," he murmured, keeping his attention on the main letter. What he found there was the same bold, dark script he'd seen on the outside. His eyes followed the dense letters to the bottom, where a scrawled name appeared below a Latin salutation. "Humphrey Humphreys," he mused, the name meaning nothing to him. He made a mental note to check the internet and see if he could find anything. Wynn crowded in to look at the script on the letter.

"That looks like English," he said at last.

"It does." The other paper, the modern one with the tape, held a name and address in flowing blue script: Felix. Briggs Road, Seaborne, USA. He set it aside, knowing he must focus. Norris, mind racing as it had when he'd been a student, analyzing texts in the library at the seminary, snapped his fingers at the girl. "Cassie. There's a notepad by your bed. Go fetch it, please."

"All right." She scuttled off, leaving Norris with shaking hands, squinting at the dense lettering.

"What is it?" Wynn seemed content now to lean back in the chair and sip at his tea. One look at the letter had told him he'd be useless in trying to make out its meaning.

"It's... it's extraordinary," Norris breathed. "I'll copy it down in more modern prose, but from what I can tell it's something of a... well, an emergency warning?" He looked up. "Something like a fire alarm, of sorts."

"How long will it take you to suss it out?"

"An hour, perhaps."

"Very well." Wynn sighed heavily as he got to his feet. "I'll be back then. I've got people to manage at Cwm Goch." Norris realized for the first time that Anthony Wynn probably had not slept at all last night. "Just so you're aware, McCormick's people are coming up from the south to fetch his body. But Adam Rees will need a local funeral, I expect."

"Of course." He smiled up at Cassie as she came back in with a notebook. "I'll be out to see his family as soon as I'm through here."

"Until then." The superintendent eyed Cassie. "And I'll be getting your clothing to you by lunchtime, Miss. I apologize it can't be sooner."

"Me too," she snapped.

"Busy morning for all of us," he grunted,

* * *

Y Rhybudd/The Warning

* * *

Norris sat back, the sun higher in the windows now, another unseasonably warm October day well along. Though its light seemed paler now, bleaker, a flat glow that illuminated but did not warm. A light that made it difficult to hide.

He massaged his temples. Soon Superintendent Wynn would be coming to find out what the mysterious letter could tell him, and Norris still wasn't sure what he could say. The letter was simply too unbelievable, too dangerous. And he needed more research. He pondered what he might have available: what he wanted, truthfully, was a long day in the stacks at the Diocesan library in Bangor, or better yet the archives down at St David's, but there were two bloodless corpses in the mountains of North Wales who told him he had no time for that. He stirred and called out to the girl. "Cassie?"

"Padre?" She'd been sitting on her couch, thumbs skittering over her phone in between complaints about the shoddy cellular service up here.

"I'm going across to the church. When the Superintendent comes back, please send him over."

"Gotcha."

And so it was that when the gruff policeman strode into the little chapel where he'd been attending every Sunday for many years, he found the priest curled up in the front pew with a thick stack of parish records beside him. "Parson," he nodded, looking worn. "I've brought the girl her clothes back. She says you're in here, doing... research." The way he said it suggested he didn't trust the idea of doing research, in general.

Norris took a deep breath, facing at last a reality he'd been worried about ever since it became clear what Humphrey Humphreys had been trying to tell him from across the centuries. He cleared his throat. "First of all, Mr Wynn, that letter appears to have been written in the year 1692 or 1693. And second? You're going to want to sit down, I think."

"Am I?" Wynn blinked once, slowly. "I'm having an extremely busy day, parson."

"All the more reason to sit and refresh yourself, Mr Wynn," Norris told him softly. His voice bounced through the little church, a whispering series of echoes drifting away as if they wanted to escape. As if they were afraid. "Remember, I'm only telling you what the letter said. I'm not asking you to believe it." He kept staring up at the superintendent until, with a faint scowl, the policeman sank into the pew. "Thank you."

"So." Wynn steepled his fingers before his face. "1692. Why was it put there?"

"It was buried there along with a... well, with a killer." Norris' hands fluttered nervously. He'd seldom been so excited, nor so worried. He was desperately afraid of how the superintendent would receive the news of what he'd been reading. "The people who lived in the Bwgan Vale Parish back then had a definite reason for taking care with this burial." He patted the stack of books alongside him. "We keep the parish chronicles in the basement here. I found something very unusual there."

"Is it unusual in the sort of way that might help me figure out why old Adam Rees was emptied of his blood this morning? Because honestly, parson, if it's not? I'd just as soon get about it."

Norris held up a placating hand. "There was what the locals thought of as a witch scare during the fall and early winter of 1692, then into 1693."

The superintendent's bushy eyebrows twitched. "A witch scare."

"They were not uncommon. Everyone's heard of the Americans in Salem, in New England: that was around the same exact time." He paused, not sure he was on solid theological ground. "Granted, they were Dissenters. This was the Church In Wales, and still is: solidly Anglican. But it wasn't unusual for more rural parishes to be afflicted by these sorts of things. It was a more superstitious time."

"Of course. It was clearly a superstition." Wynn snorted. "A witch scare, indeed."

"I don't think it was, though."

"Don't think it was what? A superstition?"

"No. A witch scare" Norris took another breath. "I think it was actually a vampire scare." He endured the long, even glare of Anthony Wynn with decent fortitude; even Wynn himself would admit that, later. "That is, I think the local people believed they were dealing with an evil spirit who sucked blood."

"And just where do you get that notion?" The superintendent's voice was mild, though with an effort.

Norris patted Humphrey Humphreys' letter. "From this."

"From that. And just what does it say, precisely?" The policeman looked expectantly down at the notebook in Norris' lap. "Preferably in modern English."

"Certainly." Norris' hands trembled a bit as he took up his notes and straightened his glasses. "Here it is. I'll paraphrase. Bishop Humphreys tells us in the opening paragraph that if we're reading this, then we should be on our knees imploring God's mercy in the face of what he calls 'Satan's most wicked Demon.'"

"Mmhmm."

"So he tells the story like this. And again, much of this is corroborated in the parish records." And thank God, Norris told himself for the dozenth time that morning, that some predecessor of his had thought to have the foresight to put the records in type, and print them, and bind them. That looked to have been done around 1880. "It seems that in the wake of the 1666 plague, there were many unexplained deaths in the parish. It was an unsettled time: thirty years on from the Civil War in England, turmoil over the monarchy, religious maniacs here and there, wars against the Dutch. There were wanderers everywhere."

"Wanderers. Yes."

"So. People died here of all sorts of things, but the chronicler describes horrible wounds: rent necks. Bruising. Beheading. Claw marks." He paused to consult his notes. "And then young women began to go missing. All of them comely."

"I don't like that," Wynn muttered. Both of them looked instinctively in the direction of the vicarage. In the direction of Cassandra. "You spoke of wanderers."

"I did. And three of them came here." He consulted another page of his notebook, the hasty scrawl there. "All men. Well-dressed, a Catholic priest, an Oxford scholar, and their servant." He looked up. "Within days, the killings had ended."

The bushy eyebrows rose. "And the girls?"

"Says here, most were returned to their families. Where they were unwilling or unable to tell what had befallen them."

The superintendent nodded. "And these men? The scholar and the priest?"

He shrugged. "They buried a body, in the church up at the Vale."

"They..." His eyes were very wide now. "In the floor. Of the church. Under the water."

"Just so, Mr Wynn." Norris shut his notebook. "My predecessor, who wrote this note and put it into the box? He says, and I quote, 'only God knows what Father Felix did in ye Sacred Chapel at Bwgan Vale, but he left with a warning: Neither blood nor seed may fall upon the grave of Sir Walter Langham, else the Devil's Plague will return."

"Neither... what?"

"Blood. Nor seed." Norris had been trying to make sense of the reference. "Might be from the Bible, though I'm unfamiliar with it."

"Hmph." The superintendent seemed to be thinking quite hard, then he shrugged and gestured toward the note with the tape. "And what's this, then?"

"That was what I was going to investigate next, if I can." Something was nagging at him. "I think it's interesting that the same name, Felix, appears in 1692 and in... well. Whenever that other note was written."

The policeman nodded. "Fountain pen, that one. I shouldn't think it was written much after the seventies."

Norris inclined his head. He had never touched a fountain pen. "So."

"So." The superintendent sighed heavily, then got to his feet. "Thank you for the work you've done, parson, but if I'm being honest? I think it's quite unlikely that a vampire is running loose in Llantarff."

"I certainly agree," Norris nodded. "You can see why I wanted you to sit."

Wynn smiled. "Indeed. Oh, and thank you for your assistance with young Miss Evans as well. She'll be on the road by now, I expect."

"Already?" Norris felt a pang, and if he was being honest it had partly to do with how she'd paraded naked toward the shower that morning. "Really?"

"Young lady seemed quite keen to be on her way, in fact," the superintendent sighed. "Well. You've given me something to think about, parson, but I'm needed in many places today. I'm sure we'll see each other soon enough." He yawned massively. "Were you thinking to go to see the Reeses today? I think it would be proper."

"Absolutely. I'm going to check a few more things here, then I'll cycle over to Goch? Cwm Goch?"

Wynn smiled agreeably. "Good, parson! Your pronunciation is improving."

* * *

Y Gwn/The Gun

* * *

Norris' mind swam with information as he steered his bike over the small rise just past the bridge. He'd learned a lot about Briggs Road in the USA, the streetview images showing a rambling manse at the top of a hill, surrounded by lawn over which, it seemed, nothing could move without being observed from the house. A somewhat deeper search on one of the American real estate websites showed that, yes, the house at the top of Briggs Road had been in the ownership of a trust in the name of a retired Catholic priest named G. Felix, and that he had been living there for as long as they'd been collecting taxes on the property.

So. Since 1933. Before that, the land was listed as unimproved, a wilderness like the rest of the hills.

This seemed incongruous, Norris thought, but then wasn't that the reason why people used trusts? To outlive their owners? There was a phone number too, which Norris appended carefully to the bottom of the taped note in pencil. He thought, already, that he might have a need for that number, but he wasn't sure what to do with it as he pedaled smoothly over the roads.

Nothing yet, he supposed. Obviously, Anthony Wynn was right; there could be no truth to anything about witch scares or vampiric infestations, at all. None.

He caught the first faint wisp of smoke as he passed the B-road headed west, down the dell toward the post office, a curling blue ribbon against the pale sky over the next rise. His brain singing with faint alarm, Norris sped up until he found himself coasting down into the gully above the River Swarle, where the road passed under the deep shadows of a high cutting that blotted out the noon sun. The locals called it Llethr Du, the Dark Slope, for it received sunshine for just a few hours a day in high summer, and not at all in midwinter. He'd ridden it scores of times already, the road a heavily trafficked one for getting to the southern part of the parish.

But today something cast a shadow over his heart as the bank cast its shadow over the road, the feathery smoke drawing him onward until he saw the crash and halted his bicycle, eyes wide. A Ford Fiesta lay on its side at the bottom of the bank. It had once been blue, perhaps, but now the metal lay there scorched and brittle.

He was standing alongside the wreck before he even realized he was leaving his bicycle in the middle of the road. Marks there spoke of tires squealing, the car out of control as it dragged itself along the pavement and crashed. His hands shook as he braced them against the upturned car door and leaned down, expecting to see a charred corpse when he peered inside.

Nothing. The fire had petered out before it got inside. Or it had been extinguished by someone.

Just a seatbelt, its end frayed where a knife had cut it. A clear Doc Martens footprint, muddy on the inside of the driver's side door, where its wearer had stood to scramble out the broken window on the passenger side. And then scampered out... but where?

Norris straightened, his hands filthy now, gazing up and down the road. Just across the Swarle, he knew, stood the Jones house, an old farmstead and barn that had eked out a crop from this soil for two hundred years at least. It was over half a mile from here, but there was nothing else in any direction, so unless the Doc Martens had found their way to someone else's door, the Joneses might have some answers.

He pulled out his phone to call 999, but was completely unsurprised when the NO SERVICE icon twinkled into life. So he climbed back on the bike and churned toward the river.