Into the depths of the earth, she thought. What a mad thing to say.
“Why do you confess this to me?” she asked Robert.
“Because you are one of us,” he answered. “You are a Varanus, whether you wish it or not. You are of our race. And though you might wish to deny it, for countless generations your ancestors have practiced such devouring like a holy sacrament. For is it not the duty of the peasant to offer his life for his lord, even unto death?”
Varanus looked away and saw Korbinian, pale and bloody. She looked elsewhere and saw him again. Wherever she turned her eyes, there he stood, gazing back at her.
“This is blasphemous,” Varanus said.
“It is your heritage!” Robert roared grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her toward him. “You are a Varanus! It is in your blood!”
Varanus wrenched her arm away from him.
“What of the monks?” she asked. “Were they cannibals as well?”
“They were our servants, I am told,” Robert said. “Of course, that was long before my time. But they were dutiful. They prepared the bodies with all proper monastic diligence. I have read accounts that say they were remarkable cooks.”
“Disgusting,” Varanus almost growled, looking away.
But wherever she looked, she saw Korbinian, and she could not look at him, not if these…revelations were true. So she looked back at Robert.
“Yes,” Robert said. “It is disgusting. It is a dark stain upon our family, upon our race. And I thank all that is holy that it is no longer done. We are of a mind on that, I think, cousin. But do not shrink from the truth of it. Our ancestors—some of the greatest men and women of England and France—ate the flesh of men and rejoiced in it. And all our disgust will not change that. Nor do such crimes mar their greatness. You must remember that. A cannibal Varanus is still greater and more worthy than an ordinary man.”
“You cannot mean that,” Varanus said. “Such abomination—”
“Great men are no strangers to abomination!” Robert shouted. “We cannot condemn their greatness merely for their sins!”
“No?” Varanus asked. “I think that we can.”
“It is no longer done,” Robert said. “Take solace in that.”
At least that was something, but it gave Varanus little comfort in light of Robert’s other words.
“How did it end?” she asked.
“It was uncovered by the King’s men,” Robert said, taking another drink. “There had been rumors over the years. Travelers disappearing on the moors, missing pilgrims, et cetera. But there was never anything conclusive. And the priory held many holy relics, including saints’ bones and a fragment of the True Cross, so despite Blackmoor’s remote location, there would always be pilgrims willing to make the long journey there.
“But during the reign of Henry VIII, a man escaped confinement in the priory, and though he was hunted across the moor, he managed to reach York and deliver his tale. He spoke of dungeons beneath the priory where pilgrims and travelers were imprisoned to be later butchered and eaten by the monks.”
“And by our kinsmen,” Varanus said rather than asked.
“Only by our kinsmen,” Robert said. “The monks were their agents in such things, but the feast was intended for our ancestors alone. What irony that though the monks did not even partake of the feasts they prepared, they alone were blamed. Many were put to the sword when the King’s men arrived, and the rest were burned alive for their crimes. The priory was left abandoned, nominally a possession of the Varanuses but never to be inhabited again on pain of death.”
Varanus felt sick. She wanted to denounce Robert for his lies—for they must be lies!—but she recognized the sound of truth in his voice. He was sincere in his tale. He believed it, true or not.
Suddenly no longer concerned about the threat of poison, she drank down her port and set the glass on Robert’s desk.
“How was our family spared?” she asked. “It is unthinkable.”
“There were rumors, of course,” Robert said. “But there was no proof. And kings have hesitated to attack the Varanuses even with just cause or evidence of conspiracy. Henry needed us and our support. And we flattered him like the pompous fool he was. No, there would be no retribution upon the Blackmoors. Not from our good little king.”
Robert spoke dismissively, even patronizingly, as if describing a child rather than a king—and a king remembered by his propensity for murder. How bizarre a land this was, where mere earls could escape such crimes and where they held themselves as greater than even the Crown’s authority. It chilled her, yet she was flushed with pride as well. The Varanuses were masters always, whatever their station.
“Did the monks not name us in their confession?” Varanus asked.
“Confession?” Robert laughed. “There was no confession. The monks knew their duty to our family. They were silent to the end. And the soldiers that killed them were too eager to put them to death for their crimes to care about mere words. The kitchens and the dungeons spoke for themselves.”
Varanus leaned against the desk and took another breath, dizzy and disoriented. She was not normally so affected by news of horror. Even the sight of it did little to chill her. But this revelation about her family, her heritage.…
She looked up and saw Korbinian standing before her. She tried to look away from him, but he touched her chin with his fingertips and held her face.
“Liebchen,” he said, his lips wet with blood, “do not look away from me.”
But how could she look on him? How could she meet his eyes, knowing what she knew now? For he knew it as well.
“Liebchen,” Korbinian said, “you are not those men. Even if what your cousin says is true, you have committed no crime. The sins of the father must not be visited upon the son. And so too, you are innocent of these crimes committed by men who died long before you were born.”
“But my blood,” Varanus murmured. “These sins flow through me. They are my birthright.…”
“You have not done these things,” Korbinian said. “And even had you, I would still love you. Even if you killed and devoured all the world until there was nothing left but you and I standing together beneath a burning sky, then still I would love you.”
So saying, he pressed his bloody mouth to hers and kissed her with such fury and passion that Varanus felt herself slipping away into him.
“Cousin?” she heard Robert say.
Varanus opened her eyes and turned quickly to look at him. Korbinian was gone, nowhere to be seen. She touched her lips with her hand, but of course there was no blood.
“Yes?” she asked, forcing a look of composure.
“It seemed you vanished into reverie for a moment,” Robert said.
“I was thinking about your words,” Varanus replied. “How can I believe all this? It is too incredible, too terrible to even consider.”
“If my word as a kinsman is not good enough, there are texts that tell the same story,” Robert said. “Logs and journals, lists from the priory, commandments that should have been burned but were not. I could show them to you, if you require, but they will not leave my company. You understand.”
“Of course,” Varanus said. “Yes, I.… I think I should like to see them.” She paused. “And since that time, no one in the family has…eaten in such a way?”
“The need for secrecy was understood,” Robert said, refilling both their glasses. “There were some who resisted, who carried out the old ways in secret. And during the Civil War, more than a few took advantage and engaged in great excess once more. But by the time of William III, we had stamped it out. The gluttony of the few could not be allowed the endanger the many.”
Varanus steeled herself for her next question:
“And what about my grandfather?”
Robert took a deep breath and said, “You do not wish to know.”
“I do,” Varanus said. “I must. After what you have told me, the implication is clear.”
&nbs
p; “And do you believe it?” Robert asked.
“I do not,” Varanus answered.
Indeed, she could not believe it. She dared not believe it.
“Then let it go unsaid,” Robert told her. “Let us say that your grandfather left England out of necessity and leave it at that. For anything I tell you on that matter will simply anger you.”
Varanus thought to protest, but there was no point to it. She knew the truth—or the “truth” as Robert believed it, though Varanus knew in her heart that it must be a lie, a fabrication engineered for some foul purpose. To have it said aloud would serve no purpose.
“Why have you confessed all this to me?” she asked Robert. “Why do you offer to show me documents that could lead to your ruin?”
“Our ruin,” Robert corrected her. “You are one of us. Never forget that, cousin. You are a Varanus. You will keep our secret, if not for the family’s sake, then for your own. And besides, as a Varanus you had a right and a duty to know. There is so much that you should have been told. All this and more.…” He shook his head in anger. “But it is not my place to tell you the rest. That was your grandfather’s task.”
Varanus felt her breath catch in her throat. She had been right. There was more to all this. Something to do with Normandy, with the des Louveteaux, perhaps even with those beasts.… By God, what secrets had Grandfather hidden from her?
And for all this, she still could not bring herself to be angry with him!
“Alas, my grandfather is dead,” Varanus said, “so he cannot instruct me.”
“Indeed,” Robert said. “Alas. Cousin William has gone beneath the earth.” He frowned and his voice hardened. “But still, it is not my place to instruct you.”
He extended his hand toward her, and she took it with a little hesitation.
“Now come,” Robert said. “I have told you what I may. I will show you the proof of it…and that shall be the end of things.”
“Of course,” Varanus said, as they walked to the door.
But it would not be the end, she thought. Rather it would be the beginning. There was more to her family’s secrets than she had imagined. She would be damned if she would be sated with a lurid tale and some old parchment.
However long it took her, she would not stop until she had uncovered the truth, all of it, however terrible. For she was her grandfather’s granddaughter, and he had been a fool if he thought that he had raised her to leave such questions unanswered.
Chapter Eighteen
London
Friedrich was a great lover of red meat. Indeed, he had once been told that the three keys to being a proper von Fuchsburg were love of wine, love of meat, and love of country—which naturally meant Fuchsburg, and the Prussians could go hang if they thought they were included just because the Fuchsburg barons had been forced to swear their allegiance to the Kaiser. Of course, back in Fuchsburg a proper meal meant venison hunted fresh from the vast Fuchsburger forest; but as it was in short supply in London, Friedrich had learned to make due with humble British beef. And while it wasn’t perfect, it was near enough to satisfy.
Tonight he dined at his usual evening haunt, a charming restaurant near Mayfair that had captured his fancy months ago with its rustic charm and surprising selection of wine. He understood it to have been built some time after the downfall of Napoleon, and the place still had a portrait of the Duke of Wellington prominently displayed over the hearth.
He was joined by Doctor Constantine, who had taken a few hours off that evening for the sake of a civilized meal, and also by Doctor Thorndyke, whom Friedrich had invited for the express purpose of meeting Constantine. He’d hoped that he might be able to forge some sort of accord between the three of them, an understanding as men of science that might lead to great things—in particular, his Great Work, which desperately needed the assistance of other, more experienced men.
But perhaps it was not to be, for the conversation had been stilted since their arrival, and the sound of the cutlery was especially loud in contrast. Still, some effort had to be made, if only for the sake of science.
“You know,” Friedrich said, as he ate his meat, “Doctor Thorndyke is a vegetarian.”
“Yes?” Constantine asked. At the very least he gave the appearance of interest. “I wondered at that when you specified nothing but mushrooms and salad greens.”
Thorndyke bobbed his head, mouth full of some vegetables, and said, “Oh yes, oh yes, strict vegetarianism. I never partake of meat of any kind, nor should you, Baron,” he added, directly to Friedrich. “It is the most dreadful of vices.”
“Oh, come now, Thorndyke,” Friedrich said. “Surely—”
To his surprise, Constantine came to Thorndyke’s rescue.
“No, no,” he said. “Do not dismiss vegetarianism too lightly, Doctor von Fuchsburg. While I do not ascribe to it myself—for medical reasons principally—I have met a great many people who do, and I am most impressed by their dedication. I am led to understand that it is a strenuous moral undertaking. Isn’t that right, Doctor Thorndyke?”
“I’m certain I do not know what you are implying, Doctor Constantine,” Thorndyke replied, harrumphing a little as if he thought that Constantine might be having fun at his expense.
Taken aback, Constantine gave Friedrich a questioning look. When Friedrich was unable to answer, Constantine took a drink of his wine and shrugged a little.
“Well, you know,” he said, “the dedication to nonviolence. The refusal to take life. It’s most impressive.”
“Ah!” Friedrich exclaimed. “I see what you mean. Yes, in that light it seems a most impressive thing to devote oneself to.” He cut another piece of his beef and laughed, adding, “Not that I think I could do it myself.”
Constantine laughed with him, and said, “No, I think not. But in all seriousness, I was in India…oh, ages ago. Simply ages. But it was remarkable. I encountered a great many vegetarians there.”
“Truly?” Thorndyke asked. “I wouldn’t have thought that in light of their…religious peculiarities.”
Constantine looked rather offended at this, but he coughed and said nothing. When Thorndyke looked down to address another bite of his salad, Constantine gave Friedrich another questioning look, much more insistently, and Friedrich could do little but shrug.
It serves me right, he thought, for bringing the man out in public.
How had he thought things would progress? That Constantine and Thorndyke would become immediate friends, and then the three of them would skip off into the sunset, defeating death and old age on a whim as they did so? The whole idea had been damned stupid of him.
“Indeed,” Constantine said, “I met several holy men who not only refused to eat meat or to kill animals, but even took great pains to avoid what you might call the passive murder of insects. I tell you, it was truly astounding. In some ways, I wish that I had that same devotion.”
Friedrich frowned, pondering this.
“Well, to each his own,” he said, “but I am scarcely myself if I do not eat meat. The ‘great morality’ of it aside, I daresay you would not find me so likeable a fellow if I were forced to live as a vegetarian.” He saw that Thorndyke was also frowning and quickly added, “Though deeply respectful of it all, of course.”
“Well, the eccentricities of heathens and infidels aside,” Thorndyke said, “I fear I do not understand Doctor Constantine’s view of things.”
“No?” Constantine asked.
“Vegetarianism is not about a question of morality,” Thorndyke said. “There’s nothing immoral about the death of an animal, is there?” He laughed a little. “That is to say, they don’t have souls, do they?”
“Uh…” Friedrich said.
How was a man to answer such a question? Especially when he had grave doubts about the existence of the soul altogether!
Constantine cut himself another piece of meat and inspected it, saying, “You’ll forgive me, Doctor Thorndyke, but I have never had occasion to check.”
He ate the piece and washed it down with some more wine before continuing, “But if you are not concerned about the…death of the animal, what is the source of your dietary conviction?”
“Why, health, of course!” Thorndyke exclaimed. He laughed again. “You must be a surgeon, Doctor Constantine, for I cannot imagine any other sort of medical man making such a mistake!” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “No, no, no, no, no, I evade the evils of meat for matters of wellness.”
Friedrich looked at Constantine, expecting him to be angry at the insult, but Constantine seemed almost amused by the exchange.
“I fear I don’t quite follow your reasoning, Doctor Thorndyke,” Constantine said.
“Well, it’s very simple, isn’t it?” Thorndyke said. “Meat is toxic, like alcohol or Eau de Cologne. Put simply, it kills as surely as illness, poison, lustful behavior—”
Constantine coughed loudly, probably to conceal a laugh at Thorndyke’s words.
“I take your meaning, Doctor,” he said. “I fear I do not quite agree, for in my experience the consumption of meat brings energy and vitality—as young Doctor von Fuchsburg has alluded to—and above all I ascribe to that most Christian of virtues: all things in moderation.”
Thorndyke opened his mouth, either to respond or to retort, and Constantine quickly added, “But it is hardly unusual that three medical men, brought together to discuss a single topic, would still produce three different conclusions. So, I suppose we may as well leave it at that.”
“Very astutely said,” Thorndyke told him. “I daresay the good baron has brought us together for a purpose and not merely idle chitchat. For idleness is—”
“The Devil’s work?” Constantine asked, his tone playful.
Hearing this made Thorndyke smile, and he said, “Precisely, Doctor Constantine. Precisely. And we’ve no wish for the Devil here, have we? Hmm? The sinful drink is enough of a temptation for him.”
Friedrich refilled his glass and took another drink.
“Indeed,” he said. “Indeed, I have a particular reason for introducing the two of you. Thorndyke, it has to do with the theories I told you about the other day. And it occurred to me that for pursuing the cause of wellness, three agile scientific minds might accomplish more than just one or two.…”
A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 24
