by G. P. Taylor
‘Who was it?’ Jago asked.
‘He said his name was Darius Malmquist.’
‘Malmquist?’ Jago exclaimed. ‘I met him on the train from London. He told me he was a publisher of books.’
‘He is many things but he is not a publisher of books. Where was he going? Did he say?’ Henson looked excited; his hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his coat.
‘He said that he was going to meet a woman in York and publish her book. He told me the name of a coffee house and gave me a voucher to buy coffee.’ Jago rummaged in his pocket and showed Henson the crumpled ticket. ‘Betty’s Tea Room … And it carries the mark of the Bank of Perazzi.’
‘They must know you are here,’ Henson answered. ‘I heard that there were still some Vampyres loyal to Strackan.’
‘There can’t be that many left. I looked on the Sinan. Many are now dead and even those still alive appear to be fading.’ Jago looked in his bag to find the Sinan and the compass, but though his hand searched every compartment he could find nothing. He lifted the bag to the chair and peered inside. ‘It’s gone. I had it with me and it has gone.’
Jago thought where it could be and then he remembered. ‘Malmquist – it was Malmquist on the train … He knocked my bag to the floor and then picked it up. He took it, he took the Sinan from me –’
‘He has the Sinan?’ Henson asked.
‘He must have taken it.’
‘Then he will know all of your movements,’ Henson said as he got to his feet. ‘It is not yet finished, Jago. I have a bad feeling about all this. Malmquist would not just appear and make himself known to you. He would know that you would tell me and that I would know who he was. They want you to know you are not alone. I took the liberty of moving in to Hawks Moor because I thought you would need me around. Now I am glad I have.’
‘And now –?’
‘Tallow is the gravedigger. He can talk to the whisperers just as well as I could, and he is near to Mrs Macarty. Do you have the diamond?’
Jago searched the pocket of his coat and pulled out the diamond and held it for Henson to see. It sparkled in the flames of the fire, each fine cut of the gemstone burning brightly as it reflected the blaze. The stone sent out shimmers of light that illuminated the dark shadows of their faces. As Jago stared deep within the diamond misted until it was like a dark cloud and then swirled and ebbed like a running tide.
‘I can see something,’ he said in a whisper as Henson looked over his shoulder.
‘That is the temptation of the Oracle. It was never made for us to look at. The stone seduces the heart and the mind.’
‘I could keep it – no one would know,’ Jago answered. His eyes were being pulled deeper into the heart of the stone.
‘And it would fill your head with nonsense and gobbledygook,’ Henson snapped.
Not hearing what Henson had said, Jago stared into the stone. He could feel a gentle heat on his hand, as if the stone were melting into his palm.
‘I can see the world,’ he muttered, his tongue stumbling over the words as he looked at the changing scene that was unfurling before him.
Henson looked at the diamond, but to him it was just as before. It reflected the light from the fire and cast a sparkling light across his face.
‘What can you see?’ he asked as Jago lifted the stone closer to his face.
‘A town … with a river … a tall church and swirls of doves circling the spires.’ He spoke slowly, as if he were looking down on the world.
‘And?’ Henson asked eagerly, forgetting the seduction of the stone.
‘It takes me closer,’ Jago said as the scene changed and the roof of the cathedral opened up and he seemed to fall within. ‘There is a statue, a man holding out his hand, the bones of his fingers crumbling to sand.’
‘What else?’
Jago put down the diamond and looked at Henson. ‘I saw myself,’ he said slowly, as if he didn’t want to say any more.
‘What were you doing?’ Henson asked, seeing the fear on his face.
‘It was a dark room. I was alone. I could see …’ Jago stuttered. ‘I think I was dead.’
‘See, I told you it would trick you. That sort of thing always does. I knew a woman in Whitby who spent all her time looking into a crystal ball. She even forgot to eat and died of starvation. It had her caught so fast she could not get away. Rubbish, that’s what I say, total rubbish …’ Henson snatched the diamond from his hand. ‘Take it to the Church of St Peter. Hide it in the vault just as you were told. We can take the train tomorrow. I will come with you.’
Jago didn’t speak. He looked at the stone, wanting to snatch it back. He thought of Biatra and Hugh caught in Luna Negri. But more than all the images flashing through his head, the face of Darius Malmquist burnt in his mind’s eye.
Henson took the stone, placed it on the mantelpiece and stepped back. ‘Best keep it there – you can’t be looking at it. Vampyre eyes see funny things at the best of times,’ he said gruffly as if to chastise him. ‘All you need is to rest. We’ll get rid of that stone and it will do no one any harm. Then we’ll start to lead a normal life.’
‘Normal?’ Jago asked sarcastically. ‘I have brought about chaos with every step. My friends are captured in a prison of the soul and buried beneath a mountain. I have a monster wanting me dead and that monster is my father.’
Henson looked at the floor and bit his lip. ‘Wrong word, Jago. Didn’t mean it that way.’ He spluttered. ‘I meant to say that we could live at peace. In a year we can go and find them, bring them back to Hawks Moor, but before that there are things to be done.’
Jago knew what he meant. It was as if Henson had only one thought on his mind.
‘Could you kill your father?’ Jago asked.
‘If I had to,’ Henson answered.
‘How would I find him?’ he asked.
‘I think he will find you. If Strackan still lives, then he or one of his companions will track you down.’
‘Malmquist?’ Jago asked.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps he already waits for you. That’s why I will go with you to York when you take the Oracle,’ he said insistently.
‘I will go alone,’ Jago answered. ‘If I am to do it I have to be alone.’
‘But they could be waiting,’ Henson answered.
‘A chance I have to take.’
‘At least let me come with you on the train,’ Henson insisted.
Jago thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘Are you frightened of dying?’ he asked Henson, who looked surprised by the question.
‘It is inevitable that we die,’ he answered, avoiding the truth.
‘What do you think is beyond?’
‘I don’t know. I have often thought about this as I dug the graves. You Vampyres aren’t eternal; you are just putting off what will one day happen to us all. Why do you ask?’
‘The Cult of the Oracle believes in a world after death. A place where their souls will be cleansed of all the blood they have taken. When I was in Nice, I killed a woman for her blood. I often wonder if I will have to repay that debt,’ Jago said sullenly.
‘That’s just what Darius Malmquist said to me,’ Henson answered. ‘When he asked me to become his companion he said that he felt that every life he took was a debt he had to repay. He told me he could never escape their faces and that they haunted him.’
Jago sat closer to the fire as if the chill in the air was penetrating his coat. He gave a shudder and looked at the flames.
‘I have never told a soul, but when I killed Crispin Draigorian he told me something. As I slipped the knife into his heart he looked at me and told me that I would bring an end to the curse of the Vampyres and to their world. As he died he told me that I would kill the king.’
‘Does that frighten you?’ Henson asked.
‘I feel as if I am being hunted and they need to be stopped. If I have to kill every Vampyre until I am the only one left then it has to be done.’
Henson look
ed up to the painting of the Vampyre Quartet above him. The face of Ezra Morgan stared down. He looked at peace, as if in another world. Henson gazed at the painting, his eyes going from face to face, then he stopped and pointed to the picture with his long bony finger. Within the painting was something he had never seen before. Crispin Draigorian was holding the diamond in his hand. Henson was sure that it had appeared only now.
‘Do you remember ever seeing that in the painting before?’ he asked Jago as he pointed to the diamond. ‘It’s the Oracle, I am sure of it.’
Jago looked at the painting and saw the glimmering of the crystal in the hand of the Vampyre.
‘It changes with each death,’ Jago answered as he took the crystal from the mantelpiece and held it towards the painting. ‘It’s like it wants to tell us something of what will be.’
‘We should take it from the wall and burn it,’ Henson said as the light from the fire danced on the canvas. Slowly, before their eyes, the dark background of the painting began to lighten. In the far distance was the brightening image of a church tower. It broke from the cracked paint as if it were being painted in front of them. ‘It can’t be – the Temple of Solomon …’
[ 29 ]
The Temple of Solomon
THE NINE-O’-CLOCK TRAIN from Scarborough edged its way slowly into York station. It was an hour late and had crawled along the banks of the fog-bound river like a wounded dog. The carriage was empty, apart from several boxes of chickens and the overweight ticket collector who had stared at Jago throughout the journey of the single-carriage train.
Stepping onto the platform, Jago looked behind him, making sure he wasn’t being followed. There was no one to be seen. Pigeons filled the iron girders above his head and looked down on him as he walked quickly towards the large mahogany doors that led into the street.
Above the clouds, the sun attempted to penetrate the thick fog that filled the street, hemmed in by the old town walls. An old bus shuddered by, spewing out acrid black smoke as passengers jumped on without waiting for it to stop.
Jago looked at the hastily scribbled map that Henson had drawn on the back of a torn cigarette box. He read the instructions: Over the bridge – straight on – keep to the right – turn into Blake Street – left on Stonegate – be careful – make sure you are not followed.
Jago was soon over the bridge. He could see small ferry-boats steaming beneath, cutting through the dark fog and vanishing almost silently away. He turned right and pulled up his collar as he walked along Blake Street. Far ahead he could see the welcoming lights of a coffee shop on the corner. There was already a long queue outside, mainly women in winter coats and woollen hats with heavy bags. Jago was soon in Stonegate. As he looked up he glimpsed a brief view of the high church tower as it momentarily broke through the mist. He gripped the diamond in his left hand and pushed it deeper into the pocket of his coat.
Jago stopped at the end of the street and waited. He leant against the wall of a toyshop and looked back, while pretending to look into the window. Even though it was mid morning, the lights in the window glistened on the aluminium aircraft and chubby dolls that hung from wires to attract the children. After checking again he walked across the road to the small door at the side of the church. Just as Henson had told him, it was unlocked. Jago scurried inside, closing the door behind him and making his way along a narrow corridor. Henson had told him that if he was found all he had to do was say he was a pilgrim who was lost. It would be an easy lie, as it was just how he felt.
With ten paces, Jago found a passageway on his left and, just as he had been told, there was an even smaller door. He turned the iron-ring handle and disappeared within. A stone staircase led down and down. Jago followed it in complete darkness, trusting his feet to find each step as he slid his hand along the wall and counted the paces.
‘Thirty-seven, thirty-eight …’ Jago reached out. His hand touched the rough-hewn wood of the door in front of him. ‘Henson was right.’
He found the handle and, slipping his hand through the opening, flicked the switch. A dim glow ebbed around the door and lit the stairwell behind him.
Pushing the door fully open, Jago stepped inside the room. It stretched out before him, the stone walls growing from the earth. A smell of damp ground hung in the air in swirls of dust blown by the breeze from the door. Stretching towards the gloom was a row of stone piers etched with chevrons cut by hand. The arches held up a crumbling plaster roof that sagged between the stone columns. Jago looked at the old electric light that swung slowly back and forth like a dowsing stick. Before him were row upon row of neatly stacked coffins. The oldest were made from hollowed rock; others were carved from hewn trunks. Those nearest to him were made of wooden planks nailed together with ill-fitting lids.
The lamp cast its eerie light into the dark corners of the side vaults. He shuddered as an icy chill tingled his spine. Reaching into his coat, he took out the small flashlight given to him by Jack Henson and shone it into the darkness of the vault. It was littered with boxes; some were broken open, their contents strewn across the floor. Like the forgotten artifacts of an old museum, axes, swords and armour were piled in the corner. As he moved the flashlight around the vault, its thick beam of light shone on a carved face.
Jago stood for a moment, the glazed eyes of the statue staring back at him. He shuddered like a dog and then smiled to himself and walked towards the statue.
Long cobwebs trailed down from the ceiling in that part of the vault. They were thick with plaster dust and swung slowly back and forth. As Jago walked, he brushed them aside with the back of his hand. The statue that continued to stare at him had the face of a woman with a long, elegant nose. The stone was painted, and as there had been no light to fade the colours they looked as bright as the day they had been created. The woman’s face was smooth as marble, her hands gentle and reaching out in welcome.
A voice spoke from behind him: ‘That was my wife. Well, one of them …’
Jago turned slowly. He recognised the voice.
‘Darius Malmquist,’ he said reluctantly as he faced the man standing by the door. ‘How did you know that I was here?’
‘The Vampyre compass. I took it from your bag. Lucca told me that he had given it to you. It was the final thing that he said to me.’
‘The final thing?’ Jago asked.
‘I killed him. He was no longer any use to me,’ Malmquist answered.
‘So you are not a publisher of books?’ Jago asked.
‘Books are for librarians … Though I did once meet a librarian who was a Vampyre – she intrigued me greatly.’ Malmquist laughed. ‘I take it that you have the diamond with you?’
‘And you want it?’ Jago answered.
‘What else?’ Malmquist snapped arrogantly.
‘What will you do with it?’
‘Take it back to the cave and complete what should have been done before Ozymandias decided he would be king,’ Malmquist said. He slipped his long coat from his shoulders, draped it over a pile of boxes by the door and then brushed the sleeve of his velvet jacket.
‘Henson told me that you wanted him for a companion,’ Jago said, wondering if he could escape from the crypt.
‘That old dog. Lucky still to be alive – but then again …’ Malmquist stopped as if he knew more but didn’t want to say.
‘You murdered his wife,’ Jago answered him. He wondered if he should strike first.
‘Not I. A very dear friend – as you well know.’ Malmquist turned and began to walk away from him. ‘I have much to tell you and it is best that we are not disturbed.’
Jago followed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
‘I remember being like you. It was three thousand years ago.’ Malmquist paused for a moment as if to remember something from the past. ‘In the name of Hades, has it been that long?’ He sighed.
‘You sound as if it is a curse,’ Jago said as he walked behind him.
‘More than that, Jago. W
e are meant to be born and then die. In death we are changed into something else. Becoming a Vampyre is an anomaly and an enigma – it is not what is meant to be. I have been a coward and dare not face death. It is as simple as that. In life I have been many things and many people. I have a thousand names and have lived throughout the world.’
‘You seem familiar,’ Jago said.
‘More familiar than you would ever know,’ he answered.
Intrigued, Jago racked his brains to disturb the memory of the man.
‘Erik Von Leonhardt?’ Jago asked, remembering the photograph as the face came to mind.
‘You have heard of me?’ the man asked with a laugh. ‘Not one of my better disguises. My eyes always give me away.’
‘I knew Lana Karlstein before –’
‘Lana is alive. I had heard that you had an attraction for her. I have known Lana for many, many years and you would have made a good companion for her. She is no more than a mile from where we are – but you will never see her.’
Jago felt his heart leap. It twisted in his chest with excitement.
‘So what do you want from me?’ Jago asked.
‘The diamond and just to talk. I have heard so much about you and after all, we are brothers.’ Malmquist spoke solemnly as he turned to Jago. ‘That’s why you are here. Vibica de Zoete promised me that she would tell you to come to this place. You were not bringing the diamond to be hidden for ever – you were bringing it to me.’
‘Brothers?’ Jago asked slowly, hating to say the word.
‘Strackan is my father as he is yours. It was all a very long time ago, but that is the truth.’
‘Truth?’ Jago asked. ‘What is truth when spoken by a Vampyre?’
‘The first hundred years are always the hardest. It is as if all that is human clings to your soul. Eating and drinking are the first things that are shaken free and then sleep is done away with. Only then will you know what it is like to be a Vampyre.’
