by James Moore
The witch-woman tried her magic again, but Kurt was better prepared this time, more expecting of attack, and whatever she had attempted washed over him with no ill effects. He growled again, glaring at the woman as he squeezed even harder on the cheekbones beneath his grip, feeling the skull fracture and then shatter. The man stopped thrashing, and Kurt lost all interest in him.
It was the woman he wanted to kill. She was the one who’d
hurt him, caused his mind to stick on things he did not want to think about — like his sweet Jackie being brutalized by a red-furred demon or the purple man who taunted and teased...
The thought of Jackie was enough. The frenzy ended as abruptly as it had begun. The rage that had consumed him faded away, leaving him weak and confused. In the distance, he dimly heard the rapid clatter of heels over cobblestones and saw the woman who’d burned the very blood in his body running as quickly as she could. His hearing was coming back, the very curse that drove him insane also healing the wounds he’d suffered.
Jackie sat on the ground not far away, her body pulled into a fetal position, and her face covered with warm, salty tears. Kurt looked down at the man before him, his face warped by sheer strength, and then stared at the bloody smears across his blistered hands. In a week’s time he had lost control of himself on four separate occasions. Worse still, he had every reason to believe he’d used his vampiric powers without realizing what he was doing. Minutes before, Jackie had been forced to relive what Crowley’s Beast had done to her, but her reaction now was far worse than it had been on the actual night of her rape. Surely just reliving the past could not have so powerful an effect on her. The female Tremere had run fleeing into night as if the forces of Hell were in infernal pursuit, yet she must have seen worse than what he’d just done to her counterpart in her time. Was he using his own powers to inspire fear without realizing what he had done? Kurt suspected he was, and the thought filled him with dread. His own actions seemed less his own and more the maneuvers of the primal self that all vampires sought to control — the Beast.
Already disgusted with his lack of control, he bent and lifted the warlock he’d ruined, and, after looking around to ensure privacy, sank his fangs into the man’s neck. The blood was cold, but potent, vital. Energy surged into his body, giving
back what the man’s companion had stolen from him. He stopped himself from finishing the man with a concentrated effort. The desires of the Beast wanted him to finish the task, but he denied it this last thing.
He dropped to his knees before Jackie, softly crooning to her and trying to evoke a reaction aside from the shivering, feverish fear she suffered through. Eventually he was able to rouse her and coerce her into moving again. He did what he had always tried to avoid — he forced his will on her and made her forget what she had seen and experienced. He desperately needed to remove the memory of what he had done to help her recover from the shock he believed he’d accidentally inflicted, to cure the damage he himself had made her endure. Somehow, that didn't make him feel any better about doing it.
When they stepped aboard the tunnel’s train, it was Jackie who led, while Kurt pulled within himself, staring at nothing and seeing more than he wanted.
The next few hours were an agony for Kurt. Despite being under the English Channel when the sun came up, Kurt could sense the fiery orb rising and feel his body demanding rest that he could not permit. From time to time, his entire body grew stiff and hot, and he would fade from consciousness, graying out and becoming almost entirely unaware of his surroundings. Beside him, Jackie held him in a position that seemed natural — leaning against her body, his head propped against her shoulder and supported by a pillow, a blanket draped over his entire body — forcing him to retain some semblance of consciousness with sharp nudges and the occasional whispered words in his ear.
The spans when he was quasi-conscious increased as the day grew older. In Paris, in the Metro underground — the last he could remember was boarding the train in Calais — he remembered awakening to the sound of combat, guns firing and people screaming, Jackie, sweet Jackie crying out in pain and the sound of a man pleading for mercy before a much closer source fired several times...brilliant flashes of white-hot pain hitting his own body...his eyes opening and his hunger growing ferocious, all-encompassing...soothing warm washes of vitae coming into his ravenous system... drifting softly into the void, a pleasant emptiness that bathed him in peace at last...and finally gaining back his full consciousness as the sun set, and he found himself lying in the back of another plush limousine, Jackie in the seat beside him, cold and seemingly lifeless, save for the sound of her heart beating against him.
He sat up abruptly, looking to the driver’s seat where Charnas sat, wearing Jackie’s chauffeur's cap and talking animatedly with Thadius Zho in the seat beside him. “What in the name of God—"
“Well, would you look at that? Sleeping Beauty is finally among the living again. Well, as close as he’ll ever get, at any rate.” Charnas’ voice was irritating, but better than the images he’d seen again in his dreams, images that refused to allow him a closer look before they shifted away again.
“Good evening, Kurt.” Zho spoke with a serenity that Kurt found enviable, “i’m afraid you left a bit of a mess behind in England, but I managed to take care of the worst of it.”
“The vampire I attacked —”
“Ignatius? Oh, nothing to worry about, he’s alive. He has Charnas to thank for that, though I doubt he'll be thankful when he realizes all that he agreed to."
“None of that," Charnas scolded. “He knew the deal when he signed the contract. I probably would have helped him anyway. He’s a deviant and a scoundrel — things I can respect in a member of the Damned — but I couldn’t resist at least trying to make him pay a price. What can I say? Now and then you get lucky.”
“Shut up, Charnas. I’m talking here."
“Yassuh, maSsah! I be a good slave fo' sho’!"
“Count yourself lucky, Kurt. We came across you and Jackie at just the right time. It seems the Tremere would rather you not make it to Vienna. Ms. Therman did an admirable job of fighting off their cronies, but no one is an army unto herself."
“Is Jackie all right? She feels cold.”
“The poor little ducky!” Chamas laughed as he spoke. “She’s suffering from physical exhaustion. It seems she hasn’t slept since the Big Bad Wolf—”
“Shut up!” The words came from Zho and Kurt simultaneously.
"Huffed and puffed?" Charnas sounded shocked.
Zho continued on his own. “You have the manners of a rutting pig!” Zho stopped, glaring at his servant. When he started speaking again, Charnas spoke with him, mimicking every sound he made. “You serve me, Chamas, and you should try to remember that! I have grown tired of your constant interruptions and your vulgar attitudes! And will you quit that? Stop imitating me! Damn you to hell, Chamas! Must you constantly mock me?”
Chamas continued the tirade by himself when the mage stopped speaking. “‘I’ve been a fair master to you, I’ve never forced you to do anything you were opposed to, and I’ve never demanded anything unreasonable from you!’ Do you have any idea how whiny you sound when you start your tirades, ‘master?’ Could you possibly come up with something new? A different threat? At least a unique torture? Two hundred years of this nonsense! Get a life!”
“That’s precisely what I’m working on.”
“Oh, I forgot. Never mind then.” The imp spoke with saccharine cheer, and Kurt opted to ignore him again.
“Where are we, Thadius?”
“We’re in Austria, Kurt. We should be in Vienna within the hour. Early enough that most of the night can be spent in pursuit of Use Decameron and her mortal lover.”
“Mmm. Then all will be well." Kurt stared out the window, one hand caressing Jackie’s hair. He doubted anything would ever be well again.
It had been a short day or long night, depending on how you counted time in the House of Se
crets. Ilse had had time to talk it all over with Carl, attempting to puzzle out the many things left unsaid by Dr. Dee, and time to sit and reflect by herself. In the end, there were more questions than there were answers. If the word of a demon was to be trusted (and the phantom memories it conjured up), then Ilse, or at least her soul, had had an extended romance with the men of a magical bloodline. Seventh sons of seventh sons, men with mismatched eyes marked for power.
One of her lovers had been good, and had died young — Paul. She had still not gotten over his loss.
One had murdered her, and was still alive — Zho. His betrayal was like an ancient wound reopened, explaining pains and fears she’d never understood, while at the same time causing new ones.
Then there was the third son of the bloodline who she was aware of, Carl, and he was not yet her lover, though the attraction was there. Ilse looked at his soul, seeing the differences from Paul’s and the great divergence from Zho’s... at least the Zho she had seen, not the one she remembered.
She still wasn’t sure how she felt. There had been such joy when she found Carl, for she’d thought he was Paul, returned to her as he’d promised. Then there was such fear with the memory of Zho, mixed with anger and pain, and, yes, still a measure of love, which made it all the more terrible.
Ilse squeezed her eyes tight, not wanting to be blinded by memories or fantasies. What she had to remember was that Carl Magnuson was his own person. A seventh son of a
seventh son, yes, and a man with magical eyes, but his own person all the same. Paul, Carl, Thadius and whoever else was linked into the chain of sevenths, were not the same person or even the same soul, only brothers or relations who shared some of the same characteristics and same magic.
Carl was more a cousin to one, multi-great-grandson to another, or at least so they gathered from Dee’s talk of “sublines” and “problems." To be descended not only from a dark mage, but one who had promised his child to a demon, and to then be descended from that child in turn, was something that could cause troubles with any magical ritual, and, as Carl had said, was even more excellent grounds than being related to House Tremere for being kicked out of the Order, if it hadn’t been the actual reason to begin with. There was really no way to tell without confronting the Preceptors of the Order of Hermes, and that, of course, was inadvisable.
Then there was the eldest of the magical line, the immortal mage who by his mere existence had allowed Zho to swindle Charnas. That mage had to be one and the same with the member of the Council of Seven who would form the other link at the top of the great chain of resurrection that would spell the end of Clan Tremere and the rebirth of House Tremere, a house of mortal mages. They had only supposition to go on, but it was strong, and that man had to be none other than Councilor Etrius. Etrius, the youngest of Tremere’s Circle, and the seventh of his magical children. The seventh of seven. All the signs pointed to him, including the letters, and the chantry of Vienna was Etrius' stronghold.
They couldn’t be certain, of course, but they’d have their doubts dispelled soon enough.
“C’mon, Use,” Master Harry said. “It’s hardly good to keep a member of the Council waiting, even if it’s just an old sweetheart like Etrius.”
Sweetheart, Use thought. Had she been Etrius’ lover as well, in a previous life?
Her thoughts were quickly brought back to her present life, such as it was. “Jesus Christ!” Carl swore. “This bag weighs a bloody ton!”
Master Harry paused and smiled, his brown eyes twinkling. "Lady Sarah’s idea of light packing dates back a century or so.” He shrugged. “You’re a mage — why don’t you just make it sprout legs and follow you down the hall?”
Carl set the heavy suitcase back down and squared his shoulders, stooping to look Master Harry in the eye. “Listen, mate, I know you Tremere want to put me through my paces and see what I can do, but there are limits and there’s always a price. And having my suitcase wander down the hall like something out of a fantasy novel isn’t something I fancy trying unless I want to get tattoos all over my body proclaiming that I’ve been shipped everywhere from Cairo to Bombay, 'cause that’s what would happen, like as not.”
Master Harry gestured to the air around them. “You may still be mortal, Carl, but you’re not in the mortal world anymore. Physics don’t necessarily apply in the Labyrinthine Hall.” He took a step from floor to wall, leaning back then and standing at a right angle to the passageway. “The only thing you might need to worry about is Lady Sarah getting mad about you tracking mud on her nice clean wallpaper.” Carl looked like he was attempting to appear unimpressed, but not quite succeeding. “Master Harry, that may be okay for you, but one of the first things they taught us in the Order is that even if you’re in the innermost isolated secretest sanctum sanctorum, you don’t do magic unless there’s a serious need for it.”
“More’s the pity.” Master Harry stamped his foot, and a shiny red apple fell horizontally out of the wallpaper on the opposite side of the passageway, landing in his outstretched palm. “If that’s the way of mortal magic, then I’m very glad I became a vampire, and I’m even more glad that we Tremere are going to change things once we become mortal again.
After all, where's the joy in anything if you rule out impulse and wonder?” He took a bite of the apple, blood running down his chin as the peel became gray and withered. “Not to mention sheer delight and amusement?” he added around a mouthful of bloody fruit.
He chewed and swallowed, licking his lips. “Our tricks may be rehearsed, but at least we can do them on a whim." The mummified fruit turned to powder and drifted down to merge with the wallpaper. Master Harry dusted off his fingers, wiping the last of the blood from his chin with one and licking it clean, then jumped lightly in the air, turning two-hundred and seventy degrees, and landed upright before them, hands out in a showman’s bow. “Just because something’s deadly doesn’t mean it has to be serious."
Ilse shuddered. “You sound like Charnas.”
Master Harry blinked, coming upright. “The Imp? I'd heard he’d gotten into this game. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. His greater half’s the demon in charge of the flesh and all that implies: carnage, carnal pleasures, carnal knowledge, charnel houses and, of course, carnivals.” He reached down and picked up Carl’s suitcase as if it weighed no more that a feather. “Alley-oop! Here we go!” He juggled Ilse's on top of it, holding them both stacked atop his fingertips like a waiter would a tray, then looked to Ilse. “Too bad there isn’t a third. Standard rule of juggling — always have at least three. But then I suppose it’s my own fault for having a room set up at the Vienna chantry."
He turned and waltzed down the hall, humming something by Strauss.
“Bloody hell,” Carl remarked to Ilse as they tried to catch up. “Flesh, death and pleasure — I can see why your lot might have dealings with a demon like that. The question is, if Zho is my ancestor, what was he doing dealing with Charnas?”
Use considered. She’d studied very little demonology, but what both Carl and Master Harry had said made chilling sense.
Of all the demons she knew of, Charnas the Bloody Jester would have the most direct interest in the Damned and their goings-on. Bloody hell indeed. But as for Zho's motivation for dealing with the Lord of Misrule, Ilse couldn’t say. Apart from her horrible death, there was very little she could remember (or wanted to remember) from her life as Gwyneth, if it had even been her life at all, though she had a chilling certainty it had. After all, she’d always had an interest in both magic and spirits, even in her mortal life. A tragic, albeit magical, past life helped to explain it. Her spirit photography could be taken as an expression of that, and she wondered if there were any way to capture images of her past lives, or if, indeed, she would even want to. She had never seen Paul's ghost, with her own eyes or on film, and she hoped he'd done well in his next life and the one thereafter. Looking at Carl, she still couldn’t be certain whether the English mage could not actually b
e the reincarnation of her dead lover, changed by a lifetime or two in between. There was no way she knew to tell other than instinct, and hers were very badly confused.
Use shook her head and followed as Master Harry led the way down to where the hallway ended in a five-sided atrium, doors on each of the four walls. He paused, gazing at each in turn.
“Let’s see. One is too obvious. Two would be an insult, because whatever the Vienna chantry might be, it’s second to none, which means that it’s first, not second. Which means that door number two is eliminated.”
Master Harry weighed the two suitcases, now balanced atop one finger, and stroked his chin, considering. “Three is the number of magic, and therefore would seem the most logical choice, though four, when you reflect a bit, is the number of death. At least in the East, and Lady Sarah is terribly fond of Eastern mysticism, so that might be a possibility. But, which is more important to House Tremere — death or magic? Which is the proper choicer
He looked to Carl, smiling.
Carl made a quick decision. ‘‘Magic,” he said and reached for the third door.
Quick as an eyeblink, Master Harry grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “No, no, no, don’t be so impulsive. Sarah’s a lady, the Palace is Night, should you count from the left or count from the right?
“Right,” Master Harry said. “One, two—” He took Carl by the wrist and counted counterclockwise round the ring, “Three,” he finished, ending at what Ilse had first numbered as door number two.
