Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘They’ve gone. Don’t get up for a moment and don’t speak very loudly, but they’re at the foot of the path. Near to the roadside.’ In a minute he would remove his arm and he would move away and it would feel suddenly and sharply cold. I shouldn’t be feeling any of this, I should be thinking about the danger, about how we’re going to get into the castle and what we’re going to do when we’re in there. What is it I’m trying to remember? Something that might have drawn attention to us somewhere? On the journey? Did we talk about Csejthe in hearing of someone?

  It was very quiet in the bracken. Hilary could still feel the warmth of Michael’s body close to her and there was the faint masculine tang of clean hair and good soap. Don’t notice it. Concentrate on watching the pathway. Concentrate on remaining still. Concentrate on trying to remember what’s worrying you.

  There was nothing worrying her of course; it was simply nerves. I think we’re safe, said Hilary silently, her eyes on the retreating figures. If they reach that dead tree lower down I’ll count us as safe and we can steal away from the path. They would be swallowed up by the mist, and they could go deeper into the undergrowth and approach the castle from the rear.

  She glanced at Michael and saw that his brows were drawn down into a frown and that his ear was against the ground. Could he hear their footsteps better than she could? Could he tell how far away they were?

  Michael turned his head and spoke into her ear in a whisper so soft that Hilary barely caught it. She turned her head, searching his face, because for a moment the words had not arranged themselves into an understandable pattern.

  And then Michael spoke again, and Hilary felt ice close about her heart. Of course. That was what had been tugging at the edges of her mind.

  The car. Michael had said, ‘We left the car on the grass verge. And they’ll recognise it.’

  It was then that Hilary saw the four men materialise out of the mist again.

  Coming towards them.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  They were both frozen into immobility. This was how animals must feel when they were hunted. Foxes, rabbits. If I keep very still, if I don’t move even an eyelash they won’t see me.

  There was a harsh note in the voices and angry shouts. Hilary risked a cautious peep through the fronds of undergrowth and saw that the men had plunged into the bracken and were swishing angrily at it with canes. And they were coming nearer. She began to pray silently.

  ‘They’re closer, aren’t they?’ said Michael’s voice in her ear.

  ‘Yes. Searching the bracken. Janos is going back to the castle – maybe for help. The three men are being quite thorough.’

  ‘I can hear that they are,’ said Michael, and although he spoke so softly that Hilary had to strain to catch the words, she could hear the frustration in his voice. He was aching to trap the men in some way; perhaps to trip them up one by one as they trod this way so that they fell into the undergrowth, and then render them unconscious. Trip them up . . .

  Hilary said in a low, urgent voice, ‘Listen. This may not work, but . . .’

  Michael listened intently, and the brief, blinding grin lit his face for a moment. ‘Resourceful child,’ he said. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hilary, incurably truthful.

  ‘Try!’ said Michael, and then with savage impatience, ‘Jesus God, if only I could see!’ He struggled with his feelings for a moment, and then said, ‘I can’t do it, so you’ll have to. When he gets close, grab both his ankles and pull them towards you very sharply. Understand? Towards. It’ll be like pulling the rug from under someone’s feet. It won’t take too much strength, but he’ll go flat on his back. And then you’ll stun him and you’ll have to do it immediately.’ His hand sought and found hers and there was a brief, warm handclasp. ‘I’m here with you, remember. Here, use my stick to hit the bastard: it’s fairly heavy at the handle.’

  ‘Yes. All right.’ Hilary grasped the stick and took several deep breaths.

  Michael said in an expressionless voice, ‘Had you a vow of non-violence as well?’

  ‘I expect so, but I can’t be thinking about it now. Keep quiet, one of them’s coming.’

  It would be necessary to be extremely quiet but immensely quick about this. It would not do to bungle it. Hilary found herself praying again. Please God let me do this swiftly and cleanly. Don’t let the others turn round.

  The man was within a yard of them, but the other two were some distance away. It looked as if they had agreed to split up and take a portion of the hillside each. Would they hear? Would they see? In just a minute, in another few seconds, she would reach out and grab the man’s ankles and bring him down. Another eight steps, six, four . . .

  Hilary tensed every muscle in her body and lunged forward, snatching at the man’s ankles, jerking them towards her with all her strength. He gave a surprised cry, a kind of half grunt that could not possibly be heard by his colleagues and fell backwards, hitting the back of his head on the ground. Hilary bounded forward, still keeping low to the ground and lifted the stick. It was a sickening thing to bring the stick down on the man’s skull. The fall had not quite stunned him, but it had knocked the breath and the wits from him. It was horridly easy to rap him on the head, in the part where the hair grew thickest, but Hilary clenched her teeth and did it. The man gave a snorting grunt again and his eyes rolled upwards, so that only a rim of white showed.

  From his prone position in the bracken behind her, Michael said very softly, ‘All right, Hilary?’

  ‘I think so.’ Hilary was trembling violently and feeling a bit sick, but this could not be paid any attention. ‘He’s unconscious,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think he’s—’

  ‘Wait till we see.’ The Irish was there strongly again. Was it only in moments of extreme emotion that it broke through?

  But he had understood without needing to have it explained; he inched forward in a half crawl along the ground and felt for the man’s pulse. Hilary, who was shaking so much by this time that she could not have told if the creature was breathing or dead, watched gratefully.

  ‘His heart’s beating loud and clear,’ said Michael, sliding his hand out from beneath the dark jacket. ‘Nicely judged, lady.’

  ‘He won’t die?’

  ‘Not for another forty years by the sound of him. He’ll have a nasty headache for a day or two, and he’ll probably throw up a few times when he comes round. Serve him right,’ said Michael, unrepentantly. ‘What now?’

  They were still keeping low down in the bracken, but Hilary could see the other two men searching on the castle’s far side. She said, ‘I think if we keep low we might get away now. Janos has gone back to the castle and the other two’re quite a distance from us. They’re searching the other side.’

  ‘Down to the road?’ said Michael, and then, with another of the swift, reckless grins. ‘Or up to the castle to complete what we came here for?’

  Hilary stared at him, and without warning caught his mood. Exhilaration coursed through her, because although this was frightening and dangerous, it was marvellously exciting as well. They would find out what was going on in Csejthe; they would get the photographs of the corpse-creatures to show to the authorities in Vienna or Debreczen, and then they would somehow reach Catherine. She sobered slightly, because Catherine had still to be reached.

  ‘To the castle,’ she said at last. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ The grin flashed again. ‘Once more unto the breach, my child.’

  ‘Let’s hope there is a breach,’ said Hilary, and they began the cautious approach to the castle’s rear.

  Michael thought he was keeping his agonised frustration fairly well in check. It had been wormwood and gall to have to let Hilary trap the castle guard and stun him, but there had been nothing else for it. Michael knew that with his sight and wits he could have dealt with all three guards using Hilary’s plan; it would have been very little different to some of the unscrupulous methods he had
occasionally employed in the past to get into the Iron Curtain countries. When the Iron Curtain was still there. But without his sight he was helpless. He was dependent on Hilary to be his eyes. Damn it, he was dependent on her for his sanity and his happiness as well now. He had no idea as yet what he was going to do about that.

  Hilary was treading cautiously around the castle’s walls and Michael could feel its huge bulk towering over them. Were they about two feet from its wall? He put out the stick and felt it scrape against stone. Yes, his instincts were becoming much more trustworthy. But I don’t want to have to trust them! he cried silently. I don’t want to be compensated by sharper hearing and supersensitive feeling. I want my sight back!

  He would accept the instincts for now because they would help him. He took a firmer grip on the belt that was looped about Hilary’s waist, and followed her.

  She had been murmuring that they were nearing some kind of rear entrance: perhaps it would have been where carters and pedlars would have come in the days when Csejthe had been thriving and humming with life.

  ‘If I stop speaking,’ she said, ‘you will know that someone is within sight.’

  ‘Yes. If that happens I’ll stand still and pray.’

  ‘Don’t blaspheme.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m blaspheming? I was never more serious in my life.’

  He heard her level the camera twice more and the whirr of the shutter as she took more shots. A tiny speck of red-eye glowed and Hilary supposed this was the night-lens operating. It was rather eerie to know that this was how night-raids had been carried out in the Gulf War, or how snipers lined up their victims. She said, in a whisper, ‘The castle is plainly not deserted. There’s a kitchen with pans and ranges and things. I think I’ve managed to photograph it. There’re packing cases – tins and jars of food.’

  ‘The attendants would bring up supplies.’

  ‘Yes. And there are lights burning – not electric lights, wall-torches.’

  ‘How romantic,’ said Michael in dulcet tones, and felt her relax into momentary amusement.

  And then they were stepping inside a door or a doorway and the warmth of the afternoon had shut off abruptly and Csejthe’s huge, menacing darkness closed about them.

  Hilary could see the immense central hall where the unknown girl had died in the cage. Fires had recently burned and there were indications of ordinary life everywhere: a drift of ash around the hearth, a tray of dirty plates that somebody had set down on a ledge and apparently forgotten. The scent of still-warm ash drifted on the air. But for all its apparent emptiness, Csejthe felt lived-in in the indefinable way that places did feel lived-in. And so far from finding the traces of occupancy homely and reassuring, Hilary found them frightening. It was all too much like Grimm or Andersen again: entering the giant’s castle or the witch’s house and finding that, although it seemed deserted, the kettle was singing on the hob and the beds were warm. At any minute you might hear the ogre’s tread shaking the ground as he returned home, and hear him shouting for the blood of an Englishman . . . At any second you might hear the witch’s cackle and the door slammed and bolted behind you . . .

  She said firmly, ‘There’s no sign of the corpse-creatures anywhere. They’re probably in the dungeons and—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No you can’t go down there alone again.’

  ‘Michael, I’ll have to! It’s where they were before. It must be where they spend most of the time.’

  ‘Until the servants bring them sacrifices,’ said Michael. They were standing huddled in the doorway, speaking in angry whispers. ‘The servants go out and find victims,’ he said. ‘And then the corpse-things come up into the light for their grisly banquets.’ He frowned. ‘The staircase you went down before—’

  ‘You’d never manage it,’ said Hilary at once. ‘It’s narrow and steep and slippery. You’d give us away. You wouldn’t be able to help it.’ Michael bit down a curse as Hilary looked around the hall. He ought not to have come after all. He was useless. He was worse than useless, he was a danger. Bitterness flooded his mind again.

  Hilary said, ‘The servants probably think I’m here alone. They’ve seen the car – that’s obvious – and if they catch me, they’ll be sure that I’m alone. They won’t suspect a collaborator. So if I’m caught, you would be free to get out and raise help. You were right not to stay in the car after all.’

  Michael managed not to say, How could I raise help? because it sounded petulant and whining. He knew that if Hilary went down to the dungeons and failed to return he would rescue her somehow. He would get help and he would get her out if he had to tear down the castle brick by brick and slaughter every living thing inside it. He controlled his temper and said, ‘All right. Point me into a good hiding place until you get back.’

  ‘Over here.’ There was a deep cupboard at the far end on the left of the hearth. Hilary thought it would once have been used to keep dishes of food warm before setting them on the tables. It was probably even used for the same purpose now. ‘Inside here,’ she said. And almost automatically, added. ‘You’re on the – let me see – the east side of the banqueting hall. It’s oblong in shape and if you stand back against the wall you’re facing the long side of the oblong. All right?’

  Michael formed a mental picture in the way that Hilary had taught him in the Hampshire convent. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The stone fireplace is on your left and the wall on your right. I expect you’ll feel the warmth from the chimney.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Michael who had already felt it.

  ‘In front of you, against the wall on your right, is a massive oak dresser. Like a huge sideboard. Jutting out about three feet.’

  ‘Yes.’ He added this detail.

  ‘The door leading outside is facing you.’

  ‘How long is the hall?’ At least forty feet, he thought. There was a feeling of great space. When Hilary said, ‘About fifty feet,’ he was aware of a small surge of satisfaction.

  He said, ‘Fifty feet. That’s twenty-five or -six paces from this end. And the door?’

  ‘Central in the wall.’ Hilary narrowed her eyes. ‘The hall is about twenty feet wide. Say eight paces across.’

  ‘Which means the door edge is three paces if I stand with my back to the wall at that end,’ finished Michael. ‘What’s beyond it?’

  ‘A courtyard. An open courtyard.’ Hilary narrowed her eyes.

  ‘There’s a small parapet, but directly in line with the door are steps. I can’t see properly, but I think they lead on to the path we used from the road.’

  ‘All right, I’ve got that as well. Don’t bother to describe the furniture, Hilary. If I have to move out by myself I’ll use the wall for guidance.’ He felt for her hand. ‘Get the photographs,’ he said. ‘But don’t endanger yourself. Go now and go quickly and safely. When you get back, I shall be waiting for you, my love.’

  Hilary made a cautious way to the stairs that she remembered from two nights ago and began to descend. There was the same flickering firelight and the same leering stone gargoyles that seemed to leap and gibber as she went down. There was the same feeling of oppression.

  She had decided that if she could see the corpse-creatures from the stair, she would photograph them from there. Even with the night-lens there would be the whirring of the shutter and the least noise would alert them. She went on.

  The corpse-creatures were there. Hilary could see them beyond the stone arch, some grouped about the table, others seated in high-backed wingchairs. Her senses were not so assaulted this time and she could take in more details. There were comfortable chairs and settles. Books and rugs and warm hangings on the walls. Someone had thrown down a newspaper, exactly in the way that people did throw down newspapers when they were halfway through reading them and were called away for a minute. She made out the name: Neue Zeit and the headline – something about a politician’s speech and the economy, she thought.


  Silver-framed photographs were dotted about on small tables and chests. Most of them were faded and dim so that it was impossible to make out the subjects, and many of them were the unmistakable sepia tints of the last century. Daguerreotypes, thought Hilary, staring. How long was it since daguerreotypes had been the norm for photography? A hundred and twenty years? More? This was remarkable beyond belief. It was like a surrealist retirement home. Sunset Rest, Eventide Haven. Your own room with TV and a garden view, and your family visiting every Sunday after lunch.

  She was lifting the camera warily, not quite pointing it at random, but certainly aiming it with more regard for speed and stealth than accuracy, when there was the sound of a door opening at the other end of the dungeons. Light – ordinary yellow electric light – streamed in.

  Two men, one older, one younger, both with the dark eyes and slanting cheekbones of Catherine and her father, came into the dungeon and sat down at the long table.

  It was not possible to retreat. The two men were facing the stair and they would certainly see if she moved. Hilary pressed back into the shadows.

  The younger one was very good-looking, in the dark-haired pale-skinned way that Catherine and her father were good-looking. It was an extraordinary type of beauty: luminous-skinned, high-cheekboned. Exotic and faintly Eastern, but with a dash of something that transcended race. A tribe apart. But there was an ominous weakness about the young man’s mouth, and there were lines of dissipation around his eyes. Hilary distrusted him at once.

  The corpse-creatures had shuffled their pitiful way to the table, some of them leaning heavily on sticks, some helping one another along. Hilary had a brief, painful vision of how they had responded to the blood, and how they had stood up straighter and been stronger and smoother-skinned.

  They were all seated now – there were about eighteen or twenty of them – and the older man had the air of a businessman chairing a meeting. But when he spoke, there was an unexpected deference in his voice, and Hilary heard with relief that he spoke not in the difficult hybrid Hungarian tongue, which she wouldn’t have had a hope of understanding, but in smooth Austrian-German. She stayed where she was, hoping she could follow the conversation.