Shifting her thoughts back to the grave site, she read the piece of paper again. What was done was done and she had a task to follow. The mere fact that they had found a record of a grave site was a warning. Someone either wanted to be found or wanted to trap whomever came looking. It had been way too easy finding it in the first place. When she laid eyes on the grave, then she would know.
It was only an hour and a half after they had left Waterloo Station when the train pulled up at Salisbury. As the doors swished open and Tristan led her out onto the platform, she breathed in deeply, the sweet country air filling her lungs. This was much better than the putrid stench of the city. The knight grinned at her and she pushed past him, walking towards the ticket kiosk, where a map of the area was posted on the wall under a sign that read, Tourist Information.
"What is the name of the church?" she asked as Tristan came to stand beside her.
"St Andrews," he replied. "But it's now called St Johns. A newer church was built there around a hundred or so years ago."
"Then I hope the grave is still there."
"It should be. The English have always been into preservation. The old church still stands there, or so I have read." He pointed to a spot on the map, not too far away from where they stood.
"Then let's go see it for ourselves."
Coming out of the station, Aya stopped a moment to survey the skyline. Salisbury was a typical English village, despite the modern fixtures that had been integrated with the old. Many original buildings still stood and in the distance she could see the spires of the Cathedral that she knew to be around a thousand years old. It had that dark ages look about it, the dominance of religion over the countryside.
"You know that's where they keep the Magna Carta these days?" Tristan inclined his head toward the spires in the distance.
"Too bad you never got to live to see it," she huffed, drawing her leather jacket closer around herself.
"Ouch," he feigned offence. "1215, wasn't it? I scarcely remember those days."
Tristan had been away with the Crusades then, and somewhere around the same time had been taken by vampires in the putrid depths of Constantinople. He had never told her the full story, but she knew enough of what some vampires had become to fill in the blanks. A lot of what they had stood for in life often carried over into death, one of those being their stout hatred of people who worshipped gods other than their own. The things humans did in the name of religion baffled her.
"This way," the knight said, drawing her attention in the opposite direction of the Cathedral. "The church is not far up this road."
As the church grounds came into view, Aya saw that Tristan had been right. The older church still stood, but a larger more pristine building stood a little further down the street. This seemed to be where they held services now, there was a sign that said as much.
"I'll start at the opposite end," Tristan said, walking off across the yard as she began to scan the headstones.
The information they had been given by the librarian at the British Library hadn't given them much detail. Only that Victoria had apparently been buried in these church grounds somewhere around the time that she had died. And what that really meant was the time she had been turned. The grave would be empty, but it was the inscription that interested her more. She hoped that it would show them the way forward.
A lot of the headstones she passed were either so worn they were illegible or cracked with pieces missing. Some were in better shape, but not one had the name they were looking for. A cold wind whipped around her and she tugged her hair out of her eyes and continued her search across the yard, where she stopped abruptly. This was it.
"Tristan," she called and a moment later he was beside her, staring down at the headstone that bore a lengthy inscription.
Victoria Dowling
1767-1788
What beck'ning star, in the moonlight shade
Shines so bright, and points to yonder glade?
Is it a crime bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To feel a lover's or a Roman's part?
Deep below, sleeps a vicious sword,
Beware ye who breaks the sleeping ward.
"Tristan," Aya reached out and grasped his wrist, "something's not right."
"What do you mean?"
"This inscription..." She read it again, just to make sure. "It's a message."
"A message for who?"
"For me."
It was then that she felt a tingling on the back of her neck and her head came up, scanning the yard around them. Someone was watching them and trying to go unnoticed, she was sure of it. And there, at the farthest corner of the old church, a figure hovered just out of eyesight. A human man ducked his head around the old stonework, watching what they were doing. From the look of him, she came to the conclusion he was a priest. When their eyes locked, he knew he had been made and he stepped out around the corner of the old church and walked towards them, his stride reluctant.
"He has been watching us," Aya said quietly enough that the priest wouldn't hear and Tristan nodded his acknowledgement.
"Hello," the priest called out as he neared. "I am Maximus, one of the priests here at St Johns'."
"Pleased to meet you," Tristan said, turning on the charm as Aya wondered about his name. "We've come to find a particular grave site. This one in fact." He pointed to Victoria's grave and Aya noticed the priest's face pale slightly.
"Oh," he said. "I would be more than happy to assist you. I've spent considerable time researching the history of the church here. What would you like to know?"
"Anythin' you may know about this particular family. We are doing some of our own research and are tryin' to piece together a family tree. This one was a bit of a long shot for us. We're not even sure we have the right Victoria Dowling, so we would be ever grateful if you could tell us anything you may have on her?"
Aya had to give it to Tristan, he had a way with words without ever needing to use compulsion to get what he wanted. Maximus looked down at the headstone as if he was trying to keep clear of their gaze. She felt a prickling sensation that he suspected who they really were and he knew what he was trying to avoid by not looking at them directly.
"This particular grave," he said slowly. "We don't have any record of. All we know is that she was a young woman who lived in the area for a time, went away and then came back. Records at this time were better than most, but the priest that took care of the parish at this time wasn't known for his penmanship or his organization."
"That's all you know?" Aya asked, narrowing her eyes as he looked up at her, trying to will him to tell them the truth. This man was lying through his teeth.
"Yes," Maximus replied, looking sheepish. "Our records are unfortunately incomplete. I, along with several local historians, have tried for many years to piece together more information and fill the gaps, so to speak, but at this stage it looks like that is the breadth of it. There are many things we will never know about those that were buried here."
Aya gave the knight a look and he shrugged, signaling that he understood. Her attempt at compulsion didn't work. They needed to retreat and keep both eyes peeled for trouble. She wondered who exactly this priest Maximus would inform about his unlikely visitors.
"Well," she sighed. "Thanks anyway."
Maximus inclined his head and retreated across the grass, disappearing around the corner of the old church.
Aya peered after him, her suspicions aroused. "He was lying through his teeth, Tristan. He knows something. Why else would he be immune to compulsion? Especially mine?"
"I don't know," he said, looking back down at the grave. "It was bloody creepy." He shivered, puling his coat tighter around himself before glancing about. "I think we'd better be goin'."
Without acknowledging him, Aya stalked across the yard and began backtracking the way they had come. As they walked into the main part of Salisbury, the murky daylight quickly fading into night, Aya pondered what had happened a
t the church. Questions answered with questions.
"Do you want to find somewhere to stay, Arrow?" Tristan asked, his voice cutting through her reverie.
Nodding, she asked, "Guesthouse, pub, hotel?"
"Doesn't matter," he shrugged. "Most humans live in them in these small villages."
"So?" she asked, knowing full well why he had mentioned it.
"I know you don't have any problems gettin' inside, but I might."
"Whatever." Noticing a pub she started to walk towards it. A drink sounded good right about now.
"Hey, wait up," Tristan called after her and tried the door before she could get to it. When he was able to step through into the pub, she followed.
They walked into the warmth and into Wednesday nights football game, it seemed. Every available space was crammed with people, the noise drowned out almost everything. In the center of the room was the bar, lined with every type of hard liquor and imported bottled beers, and along the mahogany bench was almost every kind of beer on tap that was made in the UK and Ireland. Down one end was a flat screen television, where most of the punters that had crammed into the place huddled around, yelling out profanities when their team missed a shot or the opposing side took the ball.
When a booth along the side wall was suddenly vacated, Tristan slipped into it, pulling her along. It was only a minute later when a human man slid in opposite them with a jug of beer and three pint glasses. He poured them out a glass carefully and pushed a full pint across the table to each of them.
Aya raised an eyebrow at him and when he raised his eyes to look at her, she had to hold back a snarl of anger. She'd seen this man before. He was just as rumpled and tired looking as he was that morning. Greasy brown hair, dull eyes. This human looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Long way from London, aren't we?" she hissed at him, much to Tristan's surprise. He hadn't noticed him in the Library that morning at all.
"I have been sent by Maximus," the man said quietly, taking a sip of beer.
Aya stared at him, waiting for further explanation.
"He couldn't speak to you so openly this afternoon. There are eyes watching, if you know what I mean."
"Who's eyes?" Aya asked, glaring at him across the table.
"I can't talk about it here, you must understand. If they know I'm here then I'm good as dead."
"Lucky you," she rolled her eyes. "What do you have to say? Make it quick, or you can add another person to that list that wants to do you in."
"I have heard the stories about you," the man said and Tristan leant forward to grab him, but Aya kicked him sharply in the shin.
"I'm sure you have, so you will understand that I am deadly serious. Whatever you have to say, spit it out."
"It was pure chance that I saw you at the library this morning," he began. "Then when you turned up here... We've been waiting for you for a long time, Hunter."
Her eyes narrowed when she heard the use of the name that came with a deadly reputation. "Who?"
"I cannot tell you everything, but if you want to know more, I will arrange a meeting between you and our informant."
"Stop speaking in riddles, human," she hissed, leaning forward and slamming her fist on the tabletop. To her annoyance, the man didn't flinch.
"Go to the British Museum two days from now. There you will find the Medieval Britain gallery is closed for renovation. Inside you will find your answers. Midday." Before they could enquire further, the man slipped out of the booth and disappeared into the busy pub. Aya tried to find trace of his mind amongst the rowdy locals, but he was gone. It stunk of witchcraft.
"What the hell?" Tristan cursed. "What a wack job."
"Yes," Aya scowled. "I couldn't compel him either."
Tristan snorted, but didn't offer any comeback. Instead, he inspected the jug of beer, dipping in a finger then testing it against his tongue. Satisfied, he drained his pint.
Aya watched him with annoyance, then said, "Something big is going on here and I bet it has something to do with whatever Arturius and Regulus were trying to find. Something Victoria was messed up in."
"Somethin' that affected her blood? Whatever that is, it sounds like bad news."
"Very bad news. Whatever it was, she passed it along to Zac and his brother. If this gets out, they could be in serious trouble."
"We don't even know why yet, Arrow."
"No, but that's why we need to meet this mysterious informant."
"Arrow," Tristan exclaimed. "You're not serious? You said yourself, it stinks of witchcraft and that guy knew who you were. This is a trap."
"There hasn't been a trap yet that I haven't been able to get out of," she said, offended.
"There's always a first."
"I'm doing this, Tristan. You can come along if you wish, but I am more than capable to do it on my own."
Tristan groaned as his head fell into his hands. "You're trouble, you know that Arrow?"
She smiled slyly at the knight. "Big trouble."
"Yeah, well, I hope we get out of it alive."
Aya had no doubt that she would get what she wanted from this informant. She tried not to think about who was lying in wait for them. It could be any number of humans, witches or vampires. That one she would leave as a surprise, but her money was on witches. Lots of them.
And she tried not to think about her suspicions about who Victoria had really been. That she had something to do with the Celestines. The inscription on her grave had been glaringly obvious that was the case, but that couldn't be true. They'd died thousands of years ago and she'd been the last. Victoria had been born seventeen hundred years later. Any link between the witch and her kind was only in the gift. Blood had nothing to do with it.
The part that worried her most was, Deep below, sleeps a vicious sword, Beware ye who breaks the sleeping ward. Did it have something to do with what the Romans were looking for? She hoped not, because that was a warning that should be heeded. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to leave that message for her and she intended to find the reason.
They were no closer to finding out the truth than before. What the hell was Victoria? Whoever this informant was, she would get the truth out of them, even if she had to take it by force.
CHAPTER NINE
London.
It was a different London than Zac remembered. The first time he'd left Sam and wandered the world on his own, he found himself here and enlisted in the British Army. What seemed like the entire world was at war over some guy getting shot, but he didn't care for the reasons why.
He found himself amongst the rain, mud and stench of blood on the Western Front late in 1914. Blood that stained the battlefields and the men about him. So much blood it drove him mad, but it didn't matter how many men he killed as long as they were the enemy. Turks, Germans, they all came under the one banner.
It was a different kind of war than he'd fought fifty years prior. He'd served in the Confederate trenches at Petersburg, but this was a new kind of horror. There were many more sadistic ways to kill a man. Bombs, machine guns, land mines. Air raids and dogfights were common place, submarines consistently sunk the massive machines that were the destroyers and battle ships of the Navy.
For Zac, it was much more effective to take a man down with his knife. Most times, they didn't even see him coming, he was too fast in the confusion of no mans land. When he couldn't take the reek of stale blood any longer, he compelled his way to the Dardanelles, but was too late to help the Allies at Gallipoli. Bodies littered the beaches in the thousands and the retreat had long sounded.
Eventually, he found Sam again, once the war was over, having learnt nothing new about himself. He was still the monster he always was and always would be. The dead had piled up around him and he didn't care. It took him almost sixty years before he began to think about it. That horror was called napalm. That was torture and suffering. At least he had the decency in all of his violence to make it quick. Zac had thrown down his rifle and simply wa
lked away, not bothering to compel anyone. He'd been branded a deserter, an enemy of the United States, but he didn't give one fucking shit. War was terrible and brutal, and finally he'd realized he had to search for something else. It would be a long time being immortal if he didn't.
Obviously, he was still running around in circles beating his head against an impenetrable brick wall. He'd given his life to Aya, tried to become something better, but she had thrown it back at him. Even she didn't want him. Was he too far gone to ever come back?
"Zachary." Regulus' haughty voice interrupted his trip down memory lane.
He knew that he had to follow Regulus' orders down to the letter if he wanted to continue living. What he was living for, he wasn't entirely sure yet. He just knew that he didn't want to die any time in the near future.
"Hungry?" The Roman grinned at his new protégé.
Zac glanced disinterested down the lane that Regulus had inched him towards. A woman was walking down the cobbled stretch between the lightened populated roads, her stiletto heels tapping as she went. She was coming straight at them, he could smell her. Regulus was almost frothing at the mouth, but he elbowed him in her direction.
"Show me," he sneered.
The cold snap had brought down a heavy mist that hung about them, shadowing their forms into the night. The woman, however, was like a beacon in the darkness, her breath vaporizing about her as she walked towards them, oblivious. Regulus wanted him to feed on her, but not just that. He wanted him to hunt her for his own sport.
Taking a deep breath, Zac felt the air shift as Regulus disappeared. He felt the Roman's eyes on him, which meant he hadn't gone far. The tap of the woman's heels grew louder as she neared and he couldn't help but turn and watch her approach. He'd played this game many times before. It was one of Victoria's favorites and it had soon become one of his as well in the early days.
As the woman rounded the corner, he stepped into her, as if he was hurrying the other way, their shoulders colliding. He saw her fall and reached out a hand to steady her, but deliberately missed.
The Shadow's Son (The Witch Hunter Saga) Page 8
