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Authors: Diana Killian
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thief as a couple.
“What the hell,” Blade said. “I know I don’t have a chance with her. It’s a miracle she never married some git like Gerald Ives.”
She would have liked to reassure Blade that the feudal system was a thing of the past, but he knew as well as she did that for old families like the Broughams, the ruling class was alive and well. And Allegra was very much a creature of her upbringing. Besides which, Grace suspected she still had a thing for Peter. But then Grace was beginning to suspect every woman had a thing for Peter.
She had another ale to be polite. The conversation returned inevitably to the play and literature.
“You’re quite a fan of Dr. Polidori,” Grace remarked.
Blade’s lips twisted. “I admit he’s not in the same class as Byron or Shelley—let alone Keats—but I think he deserves kudos for providing us with our modern conception of the vampire.”
“I beheld the wretch, the miserable monster whom I had created.”
“ Frankenstein, Chapter Five,” Blade said automatically. “Born the same night as Polidori’s vampire.”
Blade was referring to the ghost story “competition” between Byron and the Shelleys at their Lake Geneva villa one rainy summer night in 1816. Mary Shelley had concocted Frankenstein’s monster, Byron a vampire, Polidori a skull-faced woman. Percy Shelley, demonstrating artistic restraint, had abstained.
“Yes, that was some slumber party at the Villa Diodati.”
Blade seemed to find this funny, or perhaps it was the effects of the third round of ale. “Yeah, they sure don’t write them like they used to. Murder, monsters, revenge, lust—”
“I don’t know. Sex and violence are staples of contemporary drama,” Grace objected.
“Right, but it’s not the same. Modern drama lacks the blood and guts of the true Gothic melodrama. Byron, Shelley—even Polidori—their fiction reflected their lives. They were larger than life. Byron’s death in the Greek War for Independence, Shelley’s drowning, Polidori’s suicide. Even their ends embodied the dark romance of their lives.”
Grace swallowed ale thoughtfully. It was true that the biographies of the great Romantics read like fiction, mirroring the dark elements of Gothic literature.
“Passion,” Blade said. “They lived and died with passion. Nobody feels that kind of passion nowadays. It’s inconvenient, embarrassing, politically incorrect.”
“And dangerous,” Grace added.
They left the pub together. A giant low-hanging moon made a silhouette of the chimney pots and rooftops of Innisdale.
As the theater was just a short distance, Grace declined Blade’s offer of a lift back to her car.
His bike roared off into the night as she crossed the street, walking briskly past the park. The preparations for the coming fete were under way. Gaily striped tents puffed and sank in the night breeze as though they were breathing. A merry-go-round with berib-boned lions, camels and other exotic animals, mouths open in soundless roars, stood in the moonlight. Play-bills tugged against hastily hammered nails promising fortune-telling, fireworks and all manner of earthly and unearthly delights.
It was strange, Grace reflected, to think that these lighthearted celebrations were based primarily on the ancient pagan festival of Samhain, honoring Amhain, Celtic Lord of the Dead. The ancient Druid bonfires and animal sacrifices heralded the season of cold, darkness and decay. Celtic tradition held that on this single eve the Lord of the Dead allowed departed souls to return to their earthly homes. On Samhain, the border between the dead and living faded, and creatures of the night were at their most powerful.
A little knowledge, Grace thought ruefully.
The streets were quiet; cheerful lights shone behind curtains and blinds, and the scent of wood fires spiced the autumn night.
Grace was just reflecting how she would never have dreamed of walking alone at night in Los Angeles, when she
“What the hell,” Blade said. “I know I don’t have a chance with her. It’s a miracle she never married some git like Gerald Ives.”
She would have liked to reassure Blade that the feudal system was a thing of the past, but he knew as well as she did that for old families like the Broughams, the ruling class was alive and well. And Allegra was very much a creature of her upbringing. Besides which, Grace suspected she still had a thing for Peter. But then Grace was beginning to suspect every woman had a thing for Peter.
She had another ale to be polite. The conversation returned inevitably to the play and literature.
“You’re quite a fan of Dr. Polidori,” Grace remarked.
Blade’s lips twisted. “I admit he’s not in the same class as Byron or Shelley—let alone Keats—but I think he deserves kudos for providing us with our modern conception of the vampire.”
“I beheld the wretch, the miserable monster whom I had created.”
“ Frankenstein, Chapter Five,” Blade said automatically. “Born the same night as Polidori’s vampire.”
Blade was referring to the ghost story “competition” between Byron and the Shelleys at their Lake Geneva villa one rainy summer night in 1816. Mary Shelley had concocted Frankenstein’s monster, Byron a vampire, Polidori a skull-faced woman. Percy Shelley, demonstrating artistic restraint, had abstained.
“Yes, that was some slumber party at the Villa Diodati.”
Blade seemed to find this funny, or perhaps it was the effects of the third round of ale. “Yeah, they sure don’t write them like they used to. Murder, monsters, revenge, lust—”
“I don’t know. Sex and violence are staples of contemporary drama,” Grace objected.
“Right, but it’s not the same. Modern drama lacks the blood and guts of the true Gothic melodrama. Byron, Shelley—even Polidori—their fiction reflected their lives. They were larger than life. Byron’s death in the Greek War for Independence, Shelley’s drowning, Polidori’s suicide. Even their ends embodied the dark romance of their lives.”
Grace swallowed ale thoughtfully. It was true that the biographies of the great Romantics read like fiction, mirroring the dark elements of Gothic literature.
“Passion,” Blade said. “They lived and died with passion. Nobody feels that kind of passion nowadays. It’s inconvenient, embarrassing, politically incorrect.”
“And dangerous,” Grace added.
They left the pub together. A giant low-hanging moon made a silhouette of the chimney pots and rooftops of Innisdale.
As the theater was just a short distance, Grace declined Blade’s offer of a lift back to her car.
His bike roared off into the night as she crossed the street, walking briskly past the park. The preparations for the coming fete were under way. Gaily striped tents puffed and sank in the night breeze as though they were breathing. A merry-go-round with berib-boned lions, camels and other exotic animals, mouths open in soundless roars, stood in the moonlight. Play-bills tugged against hastily hammered nails promising fortune-telling, fireworks and all manner of earthly and unearthly delights.
It was strange, Grace reflected, to think that these lighthearted celebrations were based primarily on the ancient pagan festival of Samhain, honoring Amhain, Celtic Lord of the Dead. The ancient Druid bonfires and animal sacrifices heralded the season of cold, darkness and decay. Celtic tradition held that on this single eve the Lord of the Dead allowed departed souls to return to their earthly homes. On Samhain, the border between the dead and living faded, and creatures of the night were at their most powerful.
A little knowledge, Grace thought ruefully.
The streets were quiet; cheerful lights shone behind curtains and blinds, and the scent of wood fires spiced the autumn night.
Grace was just reflecting how she would never have dreamed of walking alone at night in Los Angeles, when she
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