Jango: Dead Master Living by Matt Lichtenwalner
“What is this?”
Jango sat up in the dark with a start.
The dead silence, the acrid smell of mildew, the moisture on the back of his neck: all his senses told him he was not in his sleeping chamber.
He gently turned his legs and placed his bare feet on the floor. It was cold and unfamiliar.
It was at this moment that he felt a small trailing line of moisture running down the side of his face. Unable to see, he touched the bead with his finger and tasted it.
“Blood.”
The realization sent a sudden, and unexpected, surge of fear through him.
“How is this possi…” His whisper was cut short by the loud grinding of stone on stone as a door opened some ten paces from where he sat. Bright light streamed in, momentarily blinding him. Standing in the archway stood three figures wrapped in cloth and covered by heavy red cloaks.
“The Red Monks.”
“Did you sleep well?” one of the asked. “We weren’t certain if you were still alive when we brought you here.” said another. Then a third voice followed, “Welcome, Master Jango, to the hidden kingdom. You are likely somewhat disoriented, but I assure you that, without our help, you would have been dead by the morning.”
He was still confused. All the expected questions followed, “What am I doing here? Where is my wife?”
“I am Brother Ptolemy, and these are my attendants. We are here to help you.” Ptolemy stepped into the stone chamber and set the lantern onto the floor. “You were assaulted by brigands shortly after you left town. Don’t you remember?”
“No. All I remember was sitting in the carraige with my wife. We came to a stop and there was some sort of commotion outside. It was dark, so I stepped out and was struck down by a crushing blow to my head. That is the last thing I recall. Where is my wife?” His voice was telling: he was afraid. Fear was not something he was accustomed to.
“Your wife is safe with us. How are you feeling?”
“How am I feeling? I’m exhausted. I’ve been sleeping in a what looks like a sepulcher for Gods know how long. How do you think I feel?” His fear was slowly turning to anger. These monks obviously had no idea who Jango was. “I would like to leave this chamber and see my wife immediately. Please stand aside and have one your attendants lead me to her.”
“That won’t be possible at the moment. She is still in repose. You may see her once she awakes. If you wake her now, she may never fully recover.” Ptolemy turned to leave. “You may rest here for a time while you get accustomed to your new body.”
“My what?”
“Your new body. As I said, you would have died without our help. Some local townsfolk happened upon your carriage and brought you to our monastery. You had suffered multiple stab wounds to your face, neck and arms. It’s amazing you lasted as long as you did, but in the end we were unable to stop your wounds from bleeding. So, more drastic measures were taken.” Ptolemy dropped his hands and reached inside his cloak. There was something there he grasped with intention; a wand perhaps?
Ptolemy stood like a statue, his even gaze trying to read Jango’s face. It was like stone. Jango knew that Ptolemy’s account was a lie. Why was he bleeding?
“We preformed The Embalming Ritual on both you and your wife.” added one of the attendants. “Your flesh proved difficult for the dweomer to take to, but eventually we succeeded.”
Master Jango Turpis had heard the rumors. The Red Monks, as the people had named them, were shepherds of the poor and the weak. They were a charitable group in a time of extreme destitution. Most of the people held them in very high regard. Some, however, believed they were also a cult who held the secrete of eternal life, and that those who joined them were transformed into the living dead. Fables? Not likely. Jango could smell the living from a hundred paces, but now something was not right. The only living flesh he could smell was his own.
Jango’s gaze met that of Ptolemy’s for the first time. Their eyes locked into a silent exchange of strength, a contest of dominance. There was something odd about the silver gleam in Jango’s stare, and it didn’t take Ptolemy long to realize his mistake.
“Yes Ptolemy. I was not bleeding to death, was I? For how would that have been possible for someone who was already dead? Do you have an explanation for that?” There was a brief moment of silence while Brother Ptolemy’s grave stare belied a slight twinge of surprise. “Once I have recovered my strength, I will have my revenge!” Jango leap to his feet and shut his eyes, concentrating. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and with an electric snap, he vanished. A trace of ash plumed from where he stood only a moment before.
“Brother, what has happened?”
Ptolemy answered, “It seems we have made an important, accidental discovery. The Embalming Ritual seems to make the flesh of the dead living again.” He also now knew why Jango Turpis had never been in public: he was a vampire. “What an unexpected turn of events! Find him, we must know how the ritual has changed him.”
“Yes Brother, I will see to it personally.”
Stories in the Ether is a series of digital short stories and flash fiction that will be published in print and as a multi-format digital anthology in 2012. If you are interested in contributing to the project, please visit the Stories in the Ether submission page!
