by Jan McDonald
“What are you saying?” Mihai snapped.
Beckett shrugged. “Just asking a question, that’s all. Do you have a problem with that?”
Mihai was furious and lost no time in displaying the fact. “How dare you? I have told you; I created the seal centuries ago on the specific instructions of my maker. That does not mean I would do so now. I can scarcely remember the seal; do you think I have not tried to recall the details?” he demanded.
Beckett persisted as the tension between them grew. “Perhaps, Patriarch, you should try harder. You imply that you remember some of the seal.”
“Hey! Enough, you two! The war is between the Born under Vasile Tepes and the Created, not between us. Beckett, apologise, and Mihai, calm down please.”
Mihai didn’t speak for several seconds as he tried to compose himself. Beckett turned away as he said, “I apologise, Patriarch.”
“Accepted,” Mihai muttered, though both of them knew that something had been lost; some sense of kinship tainted.
Lane turned to Mihai. “Mihai, my oldest friend, is there nothing you remember of the seal?”
He softened perceptibly, which annoyed the hell out of Beckett. “Of course I do, though the clue to the chalice’s whereabouts was copied from a drawing by my maker all those centuries ago. He told me to make no copy, and to remove it from my memory. I obeyed. That was then, this is now.”
“What does the seal look like, at least?” Beckett asked.
Mihai made an impatient gesture. “It was a gold disc inscribed with a dragon, wings unfurled, holding the chalice. Truly, that is all I remember. The clue to its location is inscribed on the back.”
Lane pressed him further. “You said that it wasn’t where you left it, where was that? Maybe if we start there we can work it out.”
“I left it in a holy place, a bloody place, a place of worship, torture, death and imprisonment. I left it with the monks on Snagov Island.”
Beckett checked his watch, impatient to get back to Darius. “I estimate the car will be here in around 3 minutes, then I’m leaving. Darius needs me. He needs us.” He looked significantly at Lane.
“The responsibility is mine,” Mihai said, in an even tone. “I will find it and I will find the chalice. In the meantime, I will send Helena to Darius, she may be able to help – if it’s not too late already.”
Lane nodded at Beckett; he was right, their priority was Darius and The Sanctuary, but she was curious. “Why Snagov? Surely that was his burial place. Why would you leave it so close to him? And who would have taken it from there? ”
Mihai had begun to pace. “Because it’s exactly the last place anyone would expect me to have hidden it! Snagov’s history is both spiritual and blood- stained, as I said. There were two chapels on the isolated island, one built by Vlad’s grandfather and one by Vlad himself; his is the only one remaining. Vlad converted the poorly defended monastery into an island fortress, satisfying his morbid need for refuge. It was ideal, surrounded by dense forests and only accessible by boat with a clear view on all sides. Folklore says that his henchmen put his treasure into barrels and tossed them into the lake to keep it from the Turks, a service for which they were promptly impaled. It still hasn’t been found to this day. He imprisoned his enemies and tortured, impaled and beheaded them in a tiny cell in the monastery. Soon after Vlad’s death, a huge storm erupted and tore the other chapel from its foundations and blew it into the lake; Vlad’s final revenge. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the then-governor of Wallachia converted it into a state prison which was abandoned after twenty years and finally closed in 1867. The whole place was pillaged; tombs violated, bricks, stones, roof timbers and windows – all looted. That was when the seal was taken. Supposed grave-finds were taken to the History Museum in Bucharest, and have since mysteriously disappeared. Sold onto the black market probably, which means the seal could be anywhere. Snagov was restored eventually.”
They both heard the weariness in his voice and both pondered his true age. He had lived since the dawn of civilisation and slept for centuries at a time. He had the right to be weary.
Mihai continued his pacing, his words sounding increasingly distant as he gave voice to his thoughts.
“In 1931 the chapel was excavated by an archaeologist and a genealogist and, when they opened Vlad’s tomb, it was empty except for animal bones – which only confirms my belief that he was never bloody well there, because he never died. The bastard is lying somewhere just waiting for the blood that will restore him – blood from the chalice. I have to do what I vowed I would never do. I have to find my maker – the First One – if he still lives. There are rumours that he allowed himself to perish at the turn of the millennium. I’m not even sure where to begin, only where he was last known.”
“Where?” Lane asked.
Mihai’s expression transformed as if hope had suddenly crossed his horizon. “New Orleans,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE TURNING
During the previous months, the one thing that had stood foremost in Mike’s mind was the prevailing atmosphere of peace and tranquillity that pervaded Linwood House. It was the main reason he had agreed for his wife Beth to be sequestered there in a private apartment, tended by his trusted friend Beckett under the protection of The Strazca and primarily the head of that organisation, Roman Woolfe.
That peace and tranquillity had been abruptly pierced by screams of exquisite agony and mental anguish that had roared through the ancient timbers, elegant rooms, and corridors which were accustomed only to the quiet movement of the scholarly members of The Strazca, there to consult some ancient tome in the vast and comprehensive library. No thickness of ancient British oak door, or panelling, could contain the sound of such suffering.
He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced the sitting room, gracefully furnished in antique brocades and old leather. He was at a loss; out of his depth. Where the hell was Beckett? He had left Greece hours ago.
Mike had done everything that Beckett had instructed him. They had administered morphine mixed with a sedative but it had only bought them an hour or so. Darius was turning into a vampire and there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do to prevent it. In his lucid moments, Darius was aware of his condition, which only added to his mental torture. Mike had stayed with him through the worst of it, and now, as Darius slept fitfully under the influence of the drugs, he had left him in the care of Raven and Roman Woolfe. He needed to marshal his thoughts, quiet his agitation, and ready himself for the next phase of the turning; the most gruesome part of the entire process, when Darius was no longer fully human and would need to feed – on human blood.
Soft footfall on the plush carpet reclaimed his attention as Roman entered the sitting room. He didn’t speak but moved silently to the Jacobean sideboard and poured two large glasses of brandy into beautiful crystal glasses that reflected the firelight as he passed. He handed one to Mike and, in mutual understanding, they sat in the armchairs facing the flickering, flaming logs in the fireplace.
Eventually, Mike broke the silence. “Can you honestly tell me, that with all your knowledge and resources, this is the first time you have seen this, or known of it? Honestly?”
Roman directed his attention onto the amber liquid in the fine crystal, as he swirled it carefully around the inside of the glass. He took a breath, and then said, “Honestly? Of course we have shelf upon shelf of old literature and folklore on the phenomenon, but nothing of recent origin, nor have I witnessed such a horror. The Strazca, as you know, is an organisation whose purpose is to observe and study occult phenomena – from a distance. Our remit is not to interfere or participate in any of the occurrences that may present themselves during the course of our studies. Until recently. You changed that, Mike.”
Mike was appalled at the cold analysis of the whole situation. “Me?” he demanded. “Phenomenon? Remit? How can you sit there and talk like that, whilst that kid is suffering unimaginable pain, turning into … a �
� vampire? There, I said it … a vampire! Jeesus! You can be a cold bastard sometimes.”
Roman appeared to be considering Mike’s words. Then he said in a level tone, “But that’s my job, Mike. The whole subject is emotive, it engenders a whole gamut of emotion – fear, belief, disbelief, misunderstanding and dare I say it, hatred? The ethos of The Strazca is to remove the emotion, to be impartial, objective observers and recorders of every occult phenomenon that we encounter, because how else can our studies be pure? Until you came to us, along with Ben and Jack, we had no interaction with any of it, no sense of justice or control; you did that. I have to say that it was with great reservation that we decided to allow it, but, as human beings, we found that – despite our best intentions – feelings did make themselves manifest. Now, with you to do the dirty work, we can once more detach ourselves from the ‘sharp end’ as you like to call it, and do our job as impartial, objective observers and recorders.”
“But, what about the bloody arsenal you have in your basement – your precious ‘artefacts’? Yes, some of them are religious objects, imbued with spiritual power, but you’ve got some heavy-duty weapons down there too? So, what the hell were you going to do with those, huh?”
“We knew a time would come when we could no longer stand back and watch some of the evil stalking this world. But we also knew that from the beginning we had taken an oath to remain impartial, because otherwise our research and study would not be pure. We are human, after all. Mike, I have to stand back and assess without emotion, so, yes, I am a cold bastard at times but that is because I can afford to be. Your job is to act on emotion and instinct and your infallible sense of right and wrong, to get your hands bloody while we keep ours clean. Right now, I have been able to detach myself from that poor boy’s suffering so that I can mobilise our resources whilst we await theirs. And, if I am not mistaken, I hear the arrival of the car I sent to collect your friend from the airport. Which means your job is about to begin. Shall we?”
He indicated the open doorway, through which Mike saw Roman’s assistant pass to open the front door. Heavy and purposeful footsteps accompanied by a lighter, more hurried, set brought Mike to his feet to greet his friend.
Beckett’s face was set in a mask of unfulfilled fury and Mike couldn’t read his eyes. He put a firm hand on Beckett’s shoulder. “I’m deeply sorry, Beckett. It all happened so quickly, we were lucky to get out alive. And I had no idea how to help him. We’ve done the best we could. I’ll take you to him.”
He turned to meet Lane for the first time and was taken aback by her casual beauty; he could read anger and hurt in her eyes too.
“You must be Lane; I am honoured to meet you at last, but we’ll do the niceties later. Follow me; I’ll take you to Darius.”
Right on cue, a howl of pain rent the air. Beckett flinched and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, moving with vampire speed that Mike couldn’t track. Lane was at the top of the staircase ahead of Beckett. Mike shook his head and followed at human pace.
Beckett had homed in on Darius’s presence and was at his side, holding him against his chest, sensing for the phase of the turning. His face was even paler than usual as he realised that Darius had long past the point of no return in the process. Lane stood close, her hands helpless at her side as she too recognised that they were too late to prevent the turning. She wiped away a tear and Mike noted that it was blood-stained. Something new to ponder.
Beckett was talking softly to Darius, “I’m sorry, son. I let you down, but I promise you they will pay dearly. Blood from the House of Tepes is going to run.”
Darius had a deathly pallor and Mike wondered how anyone could come back from such a condition. His thoughts were interrupted by a soft footfall; he knew the owner of the footsteps without turning around. Roman Woolfe had entered the room.
Roman stepped forwards to Beckett. “How can we help you? How can we help him? Our full resources are at your disposal. Just tell me and it’s yours.”
Beckett lowered Darius back onto the pillow and kissed the top of his head softly, allowing Lane to take his place. He turned to Roman.
“Without the Sanctuary and its facilities and treatment administered immediately, there is nothing that could have been done other than what you have already done. For which I thank you. The turning is almost over; there is only one thing left now. He needs to feed. I will have to find a donor for him but, in the meantime, he will feed from me. I’ll need a cup and a lancet, please. And some privacy; the first feeding is often shocking to witness.”
Roman left the room as quietly as he had entered it, his face grave, but a light in his eyes that made Mike wonder about his motives. This was new to Roman and he was relishing the experience whilst genuinely offering his help.
A movement in the corner of the room caught their attention. Raven had been sitting quietly, allowing Beckett his moment with Darius. Now, she moved towards the bed and they could see the black streaks down her cheeks; she had been crying.
Darius lay back on the pillows, eyes closed and softly moaning. Beckett turned to Raven and she moved forwards and flung her arms around him. Beckett hugged her in return and then held her at arm’s length, examining her closely. Since arriving at Linwood House she hadn’t left Darius’s side and there were still smuts and smoke smears around her eyes and on her cheeks. Raven was one of the longest-serving volunteers at the Sanctuary and Beckett knew her well; well enough to recognise the pain in her eyes and the loving glances that she continually cast towards Darius. He allowed himself a smile. So that was the lie of the land; Darius could do no better. A shadow fell over his face as the reality of their situation hit home. He hugged her again and felt the shudder run through her as she fought to contain her grief. He read her; something that he usually denied himself, but circumstances dictated the sharing of information. He needed to know everything.
Beckett led her gently away from the bed, casting a glance towards Darius, and, satisfied that he was resting between bouts of agonising pain and that Lane was right by his side, he drew Raven into the corridor.
“Raven, I need to know what happened. Everything, every detail, do you understand? I need to see what you saw.”
She nodded. “You need to get inside my head; read my thoughts; share my memories. That means that you will know my every thought. I understand and I’ll do it.”
Beckett gave a half-smile, “It’s okay. I know how you feel about him. I’ll do my best to avoid those personal feelings, but it’s vital that we know who is behind all this. I suspect it was Vasile Tepes and his thugs, but I need to be sure. You should know that this horror has been perpetrated in every Sanctuary across Europe and beyond. A war has begun; a war between the Born and the Created and we are going to need all the help we can obtain; vampire and human. It’s going to be bloody and it may not end well for us. But we have to stand – stand together.”
“Do it,” she said.
Inside her thoughts, Beckett found his way easily to her memory of the fire. He could smell the acrid smoke and hear the alarms going off, he saw the young receptionist fall to the floor and the vampire thug fall on her and tear her apart. He heard the screams of the young man in the upstairs clinic room. Still he probed further, looking for a face to confirm his suspicions. Then he had it; the vampire who was feeding from the young receptionist’s torn body, finally sated, stood and turned around. Even under the gore that clung around his mouth, Beckett recognised him – Constantin Tepes, one of Vasile’s younger cousins, who had a reputation for his savagery but had never been brought to book by the Council. Vasile had always protected him, given him an alibi, but Beckett wasn’t going to play by the rules now either. Now he knew where to start and he had the confirmation he needed; that Vasile Tepes was behind the new war.
He extricated his mind from Raven’s and gave her a hug. “Thank you, that was brave of you and generous. I’m so sorry you had to experience that at the Sanctuary, but I also want to thank you for being
here for Darius.” He smiled at her, and the smile reached his eyes. “I felt the love you have for him. Does he know?”
She shook her head. “No. He is always so busy and so serious; we have only ever exchanged a few words here and there. I would die if he rejected any suggestion of meeting away from the Sanctuary. I couldn’t bear that.”
Beckett’s smile still hovered around his sensual mouth. “I should try if I were you. He may surprise you. Now, I have to go and find a donor for him. Will you stay with him?”
“Of course,” she said, “but you don’t have to find a donor; I want to do it.”
Beckett frowned; there would be complications if she became his donor while there were unresolved emotions to get in the way.
“I know what you’re thinking; that my role at the Sanctuary hasn’t been one of a donor, but this is different. I love him, and – before you say that’s a problem - it really isn’t.”
“Once he drinks your blood, he will know how you feel about him: it may complicate things. It’s a huge commitment.”
“I know what is expected of me, Beckett. It’s what I want.”
Beckett nodded and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get ready then.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: LUCY’S PENDANT
Vasile Tepes had complete control over Lucy’s mind, and she followed him back to his sleek black limousine willingly. Her secret was secret no longer; her passion for the Gothic and all things vampire had only served to mask a darker yearning – to be one of them. Now she was going to see that longing fulfilled. She knew that Vasile was inside her head, reading her innermost desires and she could see from his expression that she fascinated him. There was no fear in her and that was seductive to him. He would enjoy her until she fascinated him no longer, and then he would dispose of her like so many of his other women.
