TheRagShip

The Atlantic Ocean- 1899

Angelus had lain perfectly still in his wooden prison for fifteen straight
days as the immigrant ship, the ship that would carry him to America,
rambled slowly around the Adriatic, along the northern reaches of the
Mediterranean, and out through the Strait of Gibraltar to the open sea.
Confined and motionless, Angelus had been able to reach out with his vampire
senses in a way he never had before, to take in the sounds that echoed
through the distant reaches of the ship.

He heard the voices of refugees and immigrants from all around Southern
Europe: Turks, Greeks, Balkans, Italians. He knew very little of their
languages, but he heard whispers full of excitement and anxiety, halting
preparatory attempts at English, and soft lullabies. And his mind itself
felt clarified as he left Europe behind him. His fear and his hunger, while
still there, seemed more manageable now, receding to the background. And he
found he could ignore the Other, the voice of the demon that shared his
body, and until very recently had controlled it. It still piped up with
unwanted comments from time to time, but Angelus had learned it was merely
indulging its cruelty the only way it could now, and he refused to give it
the satisfaction.

But the ship was well underway now, and there was no reason to hide anymore,
so he pressed against the lid, emerging like a butterfly from its chrysalis.
"Or a walking corpse from its coffin," he thought wryly.

He sat up to find the box in a hold with what seemed like hundreds of trunks
and crates, but empty of people. What luck, he could easily return here each
morning and lie undisturbed. As he moved, he felt something against his
foot. He picked it up, and smiled. His benefactor had left him the book that
had suggested his method of escape: a new English novel called "Dracula," by
a gentleman with the unlikely name of Bram Stoker. He opened it to the
frontispiece. "A way to pass the time on board ship," read the inscription,
"best of luck in the new world." It was unsigned. Angelus stowed it in among
the cloth that he had lain wrapped in, smiling ruefully.

He rose and heard the scrabbling of rodent feet, rats alarmed at his
presence. Another bit of luck. Trapped in the hold as they were, they were
easy to catch, and he dispatched three rather quickly, his first filling
meal in weeks.

He exited into the steerage compartments, row after row of rooms crowded
with travelers. He wandered slowly, getting the layout of the ship marked in
his head. He expected no trouble, but his life was different now. He would
have to be inconspicuous; any attention he attracted was potentially
dangerous, it was best to lie low. He had reached the end of the steerage
compartments and was just entering another group of large holds when he
heard an English voice. He stopped, listening intently. Up ahead in the
holds somewhere, a woman's voice, cultured, strident, and very British,
seemed to be holding forth on fencing techniques. Angelus approached very
cautiously, lurking in the shadows behind stacks of crates and trunks until
he saw them.

In a cleared space in the middle on the hold a patrician-looking woman was
fencing with a girl who appeared to be about fifteen, though it was hard to
tell, as she was dressed in a shirt and trousers like a boy. Despite her
youth, she seemed to be getting the better of the woman, who was clearly
instructing her. As a final stroke, the girl knocked the foil from the older
woman's hand. It flew across the hold, impaling a leather trunk, and the
girl shouted triumphantly.

The woman nodded solemnly. "Very good, Rosanna," she said mildly, "but a
slayer knows the fight isn't over until her foe is dead."

Angelus half stood in surprise, his heart lurching in his chest. The girl
let off a string of Italian, none of which sounded polite, while Angelus's
mind raced. "A slayer," he thought, "that explains it." He pounded his
forehead with his fist. "Stupid," he thought, "of all the rotten luck. One
slayer in all the world, and she shares your ship."

"English, Rosanna," the woman said. Angelus guessed, correctly, she was
Rosanna's watcher. "We must speak English in America."

"This is so stupid," the girl shot back angrily, her voice heavily accented,
"I am the victor every time. The vampires are not so slow and clumsy as
you."

The watcher glared at her. "You'd do best to keep a civil tongue in your
head, girl. I'm trying to keep you alive. When we get to America..."

"That is all I hear," Rosanna shot back, "I go to America, ha! I seem to
find enough vampires in Italia."

"Enough!" the watcher shouted, "the council has given its orders."

Rosanna swore colorfully again in Italian, then turned her back on the
watcher, her arms crossed.
The watcher softened. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry we had to take you
away from your family and your fianc�."

Angelus's eyes widened in surprise.

"But you have to understand," the watcher continued, "the fate of the world
in many ways rests upon you. I know this is a big responsibility for a girl
your age, and if it were up to me it would be different. But forces we don't
understand determine who the slayer is, and it is my sacred duty to prepare
you for the purpose that you have been called for."

Rosanna said nothing, only stared stubbornly away from her watcher.

The older woman turned away and began gathering their equipment. "I don't
know what else to say," she muttered. "They told me I would feel this way."

"I am going up on deck," Rosanna said levelly.

"I'll meet you in three hours for quarterstaff work," The watcher told her,
but Rosanna didn't answer.

Angelus ducked back behind the crates, and worked his way to the ship's
deck.

***************

He found Rosanna leaning back against the railing, staring at the multitude
of stars that could only be seen in the darkness at sea. He approached her
casually, cautiously, uncertain if she would recognize him for what he was
at first sight. If she did, he'd be as trapped as the rats he'd dined on in
the hold.

"Nice night," he murmured to her.

Rosanna gasped and snapped upright, her hand reaching inside her blouse, for
a stake, no doubt.

Angelus stepped back, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Easy," he
said, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Rosanna smiled and relaxed, and leaned back against the rail. "I suppose,"
she said.

Angelus leaned in beside her. "Where in America are you going?" he asked.

Rosanna gave an exasperated sigh. "Saint Louis, I'm told," she said, "and
you."

"Not sure yet," Angelus answered truthfully.

She regarded him quizzically. "Then what are you going for?"

"Let's just say I'm running from, not running to."

"Bad debts," she said, nodding.

"Something like that," Angelus agreed.

She turned to him and fearlessly extended a hand. "I am Rosanna," she said,
smiling.

Angelus rubbed his palm again the leg of his trousers to warm it slightly, a
trick he had learned in less fortunate times. "I'm Angel..." He cut himself
off, silently berating his stupidity. She might have heard of him, he
realized a second too late. "I'm Angel," he said lamely, hoping the slight
change of inflection went unnoticed, as he gave her hand a curt shake.

She returned to leaning on the rail, and gazed dreamily at the stars. "A
very different life awaits me," she said.

"I'll just bet," Angelus thought, but he said, pretending ignorance, "Are
you traveling alone?"

Rosanna laughed ruefully. "Sadly, no," she said, "my guardian is with me.
She is so strict. She makes me work at my lessons day and night."

Angelus said nothing, only looked hard at her until she turned to him. She
flushed, embarrassed. "What is it," she asked.

"Rosanna," he said, "I know you've probably heard this from many people, and
you don't know me, but trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Your life is
going to be very dangerous."

Rosanna's mouth opened in surprise and she started to speak, but Angelus
went on.

"You must always be vigilant," he continued, "never, ever trust anyone at
first meeting, as you just did with me. Keep your distance until there is
not a doubt left in your mind. Until then, keep one hand on your stake."

"What..," Rosanna exclaimed, confusion rising in her eyes.

"You just got very lucky," Angelus said, "If you'd met me last year, you'd
be dead now."

The blood seemed to drain out of Rosanna's face, but she said nothing.

Angelus cast a quick glance around the deck. They were still alone. "You
know I'm right," he said quietly, "and you can take my advice or not. But
since I spoke the truth to you, I hope you'll honor that by not speaking of
me to anyone."

Rosanna shook her head, still stunned into silence.

"Good luck in America," Angelus said, then he turned and left her alone.

***************

As he crept back to the hold and his box and a modicum of safety, Angelus
reproached himself for his carelessness. He still had three more weeks of
travel on board and nowhere to go if there was trouble. He had trusted as
foolishly as the girl. More so, since he knew what she was. She could go
right to her watcher, and he'd be staked and dust by morning. But he also
knew the dangers that awaited her in the world. He had been one of the worst
of those dangers until very recently. And he couldn't let this woman, this
child, really, walk into that world without a healthy fear in her heart. It
wasn't much of a life, he reflected, but it was a life. And the very same
could be said for him.

***************

He did not make contact with her again, and apparently she didn't alert her
watcher. Angelus kept to himself as much as he could, reading the novel he'd
been left, or restlessly pacing the decks.

He did hear of two sisters on board, Czech seamstresses who hoped to start
their own dressmaking shop. He took them the yards of fabric that had
wrapped him in the box and offered to give it to them in exchange for new
clothes, since the ones he'd worn since boarding in Dubrovnik were starting
to wear. They agreed readily, partially in thanks for the gift, but mainly,
he suspected, to give them something to occupy the tedious hours of sea
travel. Five days later they presented him with beautifully hand-tailored
trousers and a shirt, the latter delicately embroidered around the collar
and buttonholes. Angelus was so overwhelmed with gratitude he could barely
speak, and promised to recommend them to everyone when he reached America.

As the trip progressed, Angelus found he actually was starting to enjoy
himself. The passengers, bored themselves, employed many diversions to pass
the time, and Angelus often found himself observing card or checker games,
or listening to the music of a hundred villages sung by homesick travelers.
And the shipboard rats were child's play to capture, especially after the
struggles he'd had on Dubrovnik's streets. He still kept to himself, and
spoke little. And he was careful to call himself "Angel" in case Rosanna
asked after him.

And so it wasn't very long in his mind before he stood on deck, a few hours
before dawn, watching the ship pull into the harbor in New York City under
the watchful gaze of the statue of the Lady with the lamp. He still hadn't
decided how he was going to get off the ship. Jumping onto the pier when it
docked seemed like the best option at the moment, but perhaps another would
present itself.

He reached out to the city with his newly sharpened vampire senses, and he
heard a city in motion, despite the late hour. Music came from waterfront
bars and heavy machinery roared and crashed in the factories. "I should have
done this years ago," he thought, "come to this sleepless city." But of
course there was no need before.

A footstep behind him drew his attention, and he turned to find the watcher,
poised for action behind him. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to
defend him, and his brain raced with alarm.

"Can I help you," he asked, trying to stay calm.

In reply the watcher drew a large crucifix from behind her back.

The Other awoke in him suddenly, recoiling in terror and pain. He leapt
back, averting his eyes.

"As I thought," the watcher said calmly.

Angelus's body seemed to be working at odds with him. His arms trembled and
his diaphragm spasmed uncontrollably, drawing air he didn't need into his
lungs in panting gasps. "How did you..." he managed.

She looked as though she wasn't going to answer, then said, "the rats. I've
been taught to look for them on board ship."

And of course there had been very few this trip. From there it was only a
matter of narrowing it down, and he was easy to spot if you knew what to
look for. Angelus swore under his breath.

"This won't take long," the watcher said, pulling a bottle of holy water
from her pocket. "I've sent for the slayer. This will keep you incapacitated
until she arrives." And she splashed it over his face and arms.

Angelus howled with agony. To a vampire, only the rays of the sun caused
comparable torment. The watcher splashed him again, coming very close to his
eyes, and Angelus realized with horror that they were her target. Her slayer
would find him blind and wounded and easily finish him off. And he was
trapped, walled in on all sides. But one, he realized wildly, and he threw
himself over the railing and into the harbor.

He plunged deep into the crushing darkness, blessedly cool after the
maddening pain of the holy water. He heard the ship's screws cutting through
the water above him, but he didn't surface until the movement of its passage
had stilled. The ship was several hundred yards off, and there was no sign
anyone, save for the watcher, had seen his fall. Unburdened by the threat of
drowning he swam slowly for shore, and half-crawled and was half-washed onto
the stone beach beneath a pier. He wedged himself into the narrow space
where the pier met the shore, safe in the shadow of a shantyhouse built just
above him as the first sun of his new life rose over America.

***************

Ellis Island- 1899

The watcher and the slayer passed through customs without incident. Both
were healthy with appropriate papers, and they spoke good English, which
helped the process immeasurably. Neither had spoken to the other of meeting
with mysterious young men on board ship, and they never would. It would be
too hard to explain, and they were never really close.

Much later, a dark Slavic-looking man was called to receive his passage out
of Ellis Island. He spoke English, but not well, and his papers were far
from in order. The bored clerk looked him over critically.

"First name," the clerk said in a bored monotone.

"Anachie," the man answered.

"Andy," the clerk wrote on the form. "Last name," he said.

"Kalderash."

"Calendar," the clerk scribbled. "Port of departure?" he asked.

The man, one of the tribes known throughout Europe as the Gypsies, fumbled
for his papers. "Dubrovnik," he said. He was anxious to get into the city.
There was someone he was eager to see.

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