From Bram Stoker's Dracula to Richard Matheson's I Am Legend and beyond, different literary takes on vampires have made their marks, including The Delicate Dependency. Written by the late Michael Talbot and initially published in 1982, this highly regarded vampire novel is being released in a new edition by Valancourt Books, and they've provided us with an exclusive excerpt from the first chapter.

"They are cool to the touch and alluringly beautiful in their ageless youth. Their laughter seduces, their brilliance beguiles. They guard the secrets of science and history, and the answers to the mysteries of life and death lie within their vastly superior knowledge. In centuries past, they were known as the Illuminati. They are the vampire.

Dr. John Gladstone, a scientist in Victorian London, is thrust into their world after his carriage runs over a young man of angelic beauty named Niccolo. When Niccolo kidnaps Gladstone’s child and vanishes, the doctor must go in pursuit, with the help of his daughter, Ursula, who is enticed by the lure of eternal life, and Lady Hespeth, whose demure exterior hides a dangerous obsession. Why are the vampires taking children, and what is the connection to Gladstone’s experiments with a deadly virus? And how can he possibly prevail against a race of immortal beings with power and intelligence infinitely beyond his own?

Michael Talbot’s The Delicate Dependency (1982) is often cited as one of the best vampire novels ever written. This highly anticipated new edition, the first since the book’s original publication, includes a new foreword by Jillian Venters."

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I

When I was very young I had a vision of an angel, or at least I thought it was an angel then. My father was a physician, as his father was before him, and we lived in the very heart of fashionable London, in Mayfair, on Bond Street. Our house was a dark-brick Victorian terrace house with turrets and oriel windows and it surrounded an enclosed garden shared by the other terrace houses around the square, but closed to the street.

To the best of my recollection the incident took place in the spring of 1856, when I was seven years old. I was able to determine the date many years later because Queen Victoria had just visited the Paris Exhibition, and French bonnets placed very far back on the head had become the rage of the fashionable ladies of London. I had quarreled with my father, although I’m not quite sure over what anymore, and had run into the garden to collect my thoughts. The garden was a mystical place. To begin, the mere fact that it was completely cut off from the bustle of the street gave it an almost religious tranquillity. But it was the cool evening fog wrapping around the chestnuts and lilacs that completed the other-worldly atmosphere. It was here, beneath the huge wrought-iron astrolabe that stood in the middle of the court, that I first saw the angel.

I recall quite vividly that I was neither in any sort of reverie that might have evoked such a vision, nor was I given to even the vaguest religious thought at the moment. Instead, my mind was still reeling from the angry words of that argument long forgotten, when suddenly I realized there was a young boy standing before me.

He arrived so suddenly and quietly I scarcely would have noticed his presence had it not been for the slightest rustle of his black silk waistcoat. Naturally my first impulse was to run, but when I looked up and gazed at his face for the first time, I was entranced by his unearthly beauty. He had a thin and delicate face with a fine straight nose, chiseled cheeks, and an angular chin. In fact, the delicacy of his features was so striking he might have been mistaken for a woman were it not for his masculine attire. The unsettling quality, a quality I later came to know as androgynous, was only heightened by his reddish-golden hair, which fell in small fleecy ringlets to his shoulders, gently framing that pale and fragile face. I must add that my first impression of this being was that he was a boy, but there was an ineffable something about his presence that suggested he was older, possibly seventeen or eighteen. Perhaps it was the dreamy and almost sad intensity of his immense dark eyes. Or perhaps it was the regal and deathly still way he held his head as he returned my gaze.

As I stood mesmerized by the stranger I slowly realized that I had seen his face before. However, there was something odd about this sense of recognition. I was certain I had never actually stood in the presence of the young man until this very moment. My recognition was more like the familiarity you feel when you see a famous person on the street whom you’ve only previously known from newspapers or daguerreotypes. And then it came to me—the long, curly hair, the pale, androgynous face. This was the countenance of an angel, none other than the angel in Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna of the Rocks. I knew it well for I had spent many hours standing in front of that haunting masterpiece in the National Gallery. The Virgin is depicted kneeling in a gloomy enclosure of jagged rocks with her right arm around the infant St. John the Baptist. Her left hand is extended protectively over the head of the seated Christ Child, before Whom John’s hands are folded in prayer, and to the extreme right of the painting is a beautiful kneeling angel. The most disarming aspect of the London Madonna of the Rocks (for Leonardo painted two versions of the work—the second hangs in the Louvre) is that the entire landscape is pervaded by a ghostly and supernatural light. The twilight upon the pallid complexion of the young man created exactly the same effect, and I knew beyond doubt he was the angel in the painting.

I have no idea how long we stood facing each other. Before any words passed between us the young man vanished. In the dim and misty light of the garden I could not tell whether he actually faded away or merely crept into the shadows. If he did steal away by natural means he did so with a skill and stealth unmatched by any human being I had ever encountered. One moment he was there and the very next instant he was gone. No crunch of gravel betrayed his exit, no rustle of lilac.

I was so thrilled by the appearance of the angel I immediately ran into the house and made my way upstairs. Without realizing what I was doing I burst through the doors of my father’s bedroom. The moment I stepped inside, the impropriety of my deed dawned upon me and I found myself confronted by all the overwhelming things which comprised the presence of my father. My father’s bedroom was large and dark, save for a small circle of light cast by the fireplace on the opposite end of the room. The air was musty and cool, and heavy with the dry, burned-cork smell of my father’s Fribourg and Treyer pipe tobacco. The walls were a dark reptilian green and sparsely scattered with bleak and gray watercolors painted by aunts in the Highlands, and a bed occupied most of the area in the center of the chamber—an immense dark bed, a monster, a tomb, shadowy with dusty and ancient bed-curtains.

The first thing I noticed was that there were several evening visitors in the room, old friends and colleagues of my father. My father was ill and they often met with him in his bedchamber. They either sat or stood around the fireplace in casual but dignified poses. Some boasted gold watch chains and others possessed huge beards, beards like old Russian patriarchs. I always disliked my father’s friends. Like his bedchamber they stank of pipe tobacco. They were always calm and smug and they greeted everything with a sort of priggish amusement.

In the midst of the crowd loomed a chair different from all the rest, a tall chair of elaborately carved black oak, which enclosed its occupant like a huge seashell. The chair was positioned with its back facing me, but through its cabriole-leg hooves I could see the dark green brocade pillar of my father’s evening robe.

The group had been laughing, but after I burst in they all grew silent and gazed in my direction. I padded across the room and stood before my father’s green-robed legs. In the dark alcove of the chair something rustled.

“Step closer so I can see you,” he said solemnly.

I obeyed.

As I took an intrepid step forward I became aware of another smell mixing with the heavy aura of tobacco.

“Closer still.”

I moved into the very womb of darkness, just inches away from my father’s cool presence, and the other smell enveloped my face like a warm mist. It was a different smell, not at all like old tobacco, or the distinctive animal scent of my father. It was oddly pleasant and I recognized the familiar aroma of red Bordeaux, an encircling fog of fine claret that often hovered about the darkness where my father sat. I noticed several of the men held large round glasses. Everyone was silent.

“Have you come to apologize?”

“No, Papa.”

Nothing . . .

“I’ve seen—”

I cut off abruptly and gazed into the darkness. No eyes or face. No glimpse of large and powerful hands. Only the warm, wet fog of claret. And silence . . .

“I’ve seen an angel,” I managed to blurt out.

For a long time there was no answer, and then, without a hint of emotion his voice asked, “Where?”

“In the garden. Beside the astrolabe.”

Once again I stood in the stony presence of an unseen judge. I shifted my weight nervously and felt my palms grow damp. From the darkness one of my father’s friends chuckled derisively and there was movement. Here a foot scuffed across the carpet. There a glass tapped against a table.

“And how do you know it was an angel?” my father asked dispassionately. “Did he have wings, and if he had wings, did he have teeth? Were they very large wings?”

There was more laughter.

“No!” I exclaimed. I proceeded to relate the entire incident. I breathlessly described the young man with exacting detail and explained how magically he had both appeared and vanished. I told him he resembled the angel in the Madonna of the Rocks and how unearthly the moonlight seemed upon his face. Indeed, I was so excited by the occurrence that I’m sure I glowed with the fiery conviction of the visionary, and when I finished there was an uneasy silence in the room.

With this Father quickly sat forward and for the first time his face entered the circle of firelight. He had a hard face, thin and drawn, with closely cropped white hair and a small, graying mustache above his solemn lip. He was handsome, but age crept in around the corners of his face. His eyes were pale, pale blue, almost gray, like drops of dew on the edge of a razor, and the heaviness of wine crept in his breath.

“There are many incredible things in the world,” he said with slow and measured breath. “Dr. Livingstone’s crossed the Kalahari. We can inject medicine beneath the skin with a hypodermic syringe and they’ve crisscrossed the country with railroads.” He glanced around the room at his friends, seeing that they waited quietly for his judgment.

“ . . . but there are no angels.”

I was stunned. I could scarcely believe that he was so blindly disregarding what I had seen, experienced. “No!” I cried, but my voice was quickly swallowed by the stale air and the crackling of the fire. Again there was an anxious silence in the room.

“There are no angels,” my father repeated and finally broke the spell. I looked into his eyes. He gazed back at me. The greater will had won and the other men in the room began to chuckle once again.

“Admit it. There are no angels.”

I burst into tears and struggled to shake my head.

“Admit it!” he repeated again, and slowly, agonizingly, I nodded.

I turned and quickly left the room as my father resumed his phlegmatic silence. The glass of claret lifted into the darkness.

Later that evening I managed to locate a book of my father’s containing an engraving of the Madonna of the Rocks and I stared at it for hours. There was no mistake: The face of the young man in the garden was exactly the same, down to every last line, as the face in the painting. I fell asleep that night telling myself over and over that I had seen Leonardo’s angel in the garden, but I never mentioned the incident to anyone again.