Descent into Dust
Page 9
Fox’s hand was tight on my arm to steady me, and a strange thrill caught me, caressing its way under my flesh in a way that was not unpleasant. It occurred to me that despite having been a married woman, I had never shared anything as intimate as this night with Simon or any other man.
I gathered my wits. “What happens now?”
He was grim as he explained. “There is a sophisticated vampire hierarchy based on power, age, and how a creature feeds. Wadim was among the least of them. Marius is a great lord, a master of others and one of the most powerful among his kind. The loss of his servant is only a minor setback, but one that will not please him.”
We waded through the fog, our footsteps muffled. A sense of unreality pursued me like a stubborn shadow. I thought, Vampires?
I did not know if I wanted to believe it or not. I looked at Fox. His stoic face in profile, seemingly so confident, calmed me. We could not both of us be mad. “How is it you know of these things?” I asked.
He did not answer at first. Then, carefully, he said, “Sometimes we are exposed to things we would never choose to know. If we survive, we gain experience. If we are lucky, we gain expertise. I’ve traveled to the eastern regions of Europe, visited Istanbul, and even gone all the way to far Egypt. I’ve spent a long time learning what I could.”
“Egypt!” I was amazed. “That is a very long way.”
“It was the only means to know the things I sought to know. There is no study of revenants and ghouls to be taken at university.” The smile he wore was a mixture of self-deprecating humor and sadness. “One has to carefully trace the plethora of legends to find the truths in them. It can be tricky, for they are mingled with useless superstition and outright lies. But I have learned that a vampire reliably moves within a cycle of hunting grounds. He will set up in a location, a town or village, and make a few like himself, either strigoi vii or minions to aid him. He cannot do this easily, or often, and he must be at his full power.”
He stopped in his tracks, and his voice changed. “It takes three bites of a special nature to make a vampire,” he said, a leaden rasp to his voice. “And each costs the host dearly, for the victim is transformed farther and farther from his human nature with each bleeding. It costs them their very blood. Some die trying to make another, especially on the first bite, which is the most draining for them. Others can do, and even become adept, so always with great taxing of their power.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“The undead are social creatures. They crave their own society.” His gaze drifted away as dark thoughts clouded his features. “Often they hunt together. It is play to them, you understand. Sport.”
These terrible words hung in the air, suspended in the mist. Fox took my elbow and we resumed walking. “When they have fed their fill from a place,” he explained, “the vampires move on. They are nomadic, visiting the next hunting ground in turn. It will be a generation or more before they return to a particular one. This is how I know Marius has not come here before to hunt. There are no legends, no past plagues or supernatural lore here to hint of his past visits.”
“He is killing. Those deaths, the bloodless corpses, they have to be his work.” My head shot up with a thought. “I thought the vampire bit here,” I said, touching my fingers to the soft, warm spot on my neck, just behind my earlobe. “The artery that supplies the blood to the brain. Would there not be evidence of such a wound?”
He nodded. “None of the victims of this local plague have displayed such signs of an arterial wound. If it had, talk of a vampire would have generated well before this, even here in England.”
“Then how does he…?”
He made a motion with his hand, a gesture of pure frustra tion, then stalked a distance and stopped. “One such as Marius has special charms to seal the wound with a drop of his own blood, for vampire blood is imbued with magical properties. When he is at the proper strength, and with enough time after the kill, he can cover the evidence of his crime.”
He glanced at me. I had the feeling he was trying to gauge how I was taking all of this. When he saw I remained calm, he appeared to relax. “There is another subject that has been on my mind,” he ventured. “The time, or rather the season, is important, I am convinced. Certain seasons, I have heard said, affect the power of these creatures. This is spring, and there are important feasts coming that have long been recognized as times when evil is strong.” His steps slowed as we neared the house. “In fact, Beltane is nearly upon us.”
“Is that not May Day?” I asked. The tradition of going Maying was very much in fashion among villagers in the countryside where I grew up, if nothing more than for an excuse to drink and act bawdy. It was a night in which girls like Alyssa and I were tucked into bed early. “The traditions of May Day have to do with fertility.”
He paused. We’d reached the back gate but did not go further. “Did you know it is the custom at Eton for the boys to collect hawthorn switches on Beltane? They use the boughs to ward off evil, for hawthorn is considered holy.”
I froze momentarily, then recollected myself. Had he meant to catch me off guard with the mention of the hawthorn? He knew about the tree, I was certain. “May is a mere five weeks away,” I observed.
“I believe that is all the time we have to understand Marius’s purpose here.”
My heart leapt to my throat, beating so forcefully it nearly choked me. “My God. Henrietta. She thinks he is her friend.” Several beats of silence passed, after which I asked in a small, frightened voice, “What do you think he wants with her?”
Fox spread his hands in an open gesture. “I cannot assure you of much, but I feel safe to assume he does not mean to feed from the child, for the simple fact that if he did, he would already have done so. He must intend to fool her, trick her into doing something he wants or needs.”
“But what could he want, or need, from a child?”
He appeared genuinely regretful. “I wish I could tell you. To have a child in the sights of such a creature, it is unspeakably horrible. And I know you love her a great deal.”
I nodded numbly. I was not reassured that we had discovered anything in our discussion to help Henrietta.
“I will attempt to help you safeguard her,” he said, and his voice had a new quality. It was softer, gentler, as if he were sensitive to my fear. “I know you have sensed, or seen, things, haven’t you? Can you tell me what these are? It might help.”
I had resisted trusting Mr. Fox previous to this, but no more. I believed him when he said he, too, was concerned for Henrietta. Thus, I surrendered my reservations and told him everything, from my first twinge of headache upon arrival to a detailed account of the serpents’ attack in the stable.
“It seems it all centers around Henrietta,” I said in conclusion. “Do you not agree?”
“It appears to be the case. Perhaps he is merely using her to gain entrance to the house,” he said contemplatively. “Children are easily beguiled because of their innocence, and they trust so easily.”
“So it is true a vampire cannot enter a house unless invited?” I asked.
“It is one of those superstitions that turns out to be true.”
“I cannot say I know much of vampires.”
He cut me a look. “You will need to learn quickly.”
I clutched my cloak about my shoulders. The chill of the morning finally penetrated my numbness, and my teeth began to chatter. “I think she is resisting him for now. That explains the nightmares. Do you think he will give up and leave her alone?”
“He shall try some other means,” Fox said darkly. “If he wants something in this house, he will not relent. With a house that size, it will not be difficult to find someone else to aid him if he wants entrance. I wish I could tell you a better hypothesis, but it seems he wants that child, Emma.”
So Henrietta was not safe at all, nor were any of us.
“I think you should go inside now,” Fox said. “You are getting cold.”
We used the French doors in the library, and I was able to slip upstairs unnoticed. I crawled into bed, my exhaustion sudden and complete, closing my eyes tightly. I tried to remember what it was like when Simon was alive, the sanest time of my life. In an effort to find some comfort for myself, I imagined he was here with me, sleeping silently beside me. I had but to turn on my back, and upon the pillow would be his silver hair, his bold features in repose.
What would he think of what I had done tonight? As indulgent, as doting as he had been, I doubted even my dead husband would find any understanding for the driving of a stake into the heart of a revenant.
But I had done such a thing with Valerian Fox, and I was not ashamed. My shaking eased. I had helped drive an evil creature back into the realm of death. I thought of that, then, and in time my sleep came, dreamless and deep; what my stepmother used to call the sleep of the just.
The world, upon my waking late in the morning, was different. I lay abed, wondering if I’d dreamt the early morning’s mission to the stable. If I had, it had been the most frightening nightmare imaginable, for it had seemed real. Could I truly accept the existence of vampires? Such things were mere legends, terrible creatures fantasized in superstition. But I had seen the creature Wadim come back to life. I had battled the serpents and through some spectacular, completely unanticipated skill, killed six. These things were not my imagination.
Those were not the only reasons that convinced me that what was happening here in Avebury was real. The other I can only name as instinct, although that is not an adequate way to describe it. More my nature, I think, unfurling slowly, jerkily, incrementally aware that there was a world beyond the safe, ordered existence of the human race, and that, for some reason, I had acquired a particular glimpse into it.
I rose with a sense of purpose and dressed quickly, anxious to meet with Mr. Fox. We had much to discuss.
However, Alyssa was waiting for me, casting aside her cards when I entered the drawing room. “Emma,” she cried, indicating the seat next to her on the couch. “I have to talk to you about the embroidery for the baby’s layette. We must get started right away and I haven’t decided if I’m going to do daisies or roses.”
I almost quipped that either would be inappropriate if the child were a boy, but realized such an observation would not be appreciated. I adopted an indulgent manner. “I am sure whatever you decide will be lovely.”
Mr. Hess was holding court, and I overheard him mention The Sanctuary and something about a Catholic church. “Saint Michael’s was never taken over, either by the Tudors or Cromwell, which is remarkable as it is quite a wealthy holding.”
Mrs. Bedford said, “This is the parish up past Overton Hill, and you say it lies directly upon this line?”
“What do you think is the right time to begin letting out my dresses?” Alyssa asked, pulling my attention away. “I shall hate being fat and misshapen…Emma. Are you listening?”
“Indeed, yes,” I answered, although this was only partially true. I regretted I could not be more attentive now that Alyssa finally needed me to provide the kind of companionship she required. “Maybe some new shawls will be the cure,” I said, thinking quickly. “If you collect some really interesting pieces, you can wrap yourself in them in any dress and they will draw the attention from your condition.”
Her mouth made a small “O” of delight. “I have the Chinese silk, of course,” she declared excitedly. “I could embellish some others. I am skilled with a needle.”
I was delighted with my cleverness. She and Mary began to discuss the possibilities, and as the two of them were amply distracted, I was able to eavesdrop once again on the group behind me.
Mr. Hess was speaking. “So our Saint Michael in the Fields is part of the Saint Michael Line, you see.”
“Not our Saint Michael’s, surely,” harrumphed Sir William, rolling his eyes, “as we are no papists.”
Hess’s previous profession as an Oxford don became evident as he warmed to his subject. “The power meridians of which I speak have to do with ancient beliefs in forces that flow naturally through the earth’s body.”
“Pagan nonsense!” declared Sir William.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Hess, “that is the popular opinion. I have been trying to get a paper published on the subject for an eternity, but the obvious is all but ignored. That does not change the fact that there is ample evidence of forces scoring the surface of our earth, spiritual paths where things out of the ordinary are common occurrence.”
“What are these forces?” I asked, twisting in my seat, abandoning the pretense of attending my sister.
“The sort of thing the old religions of the area used to know,” Mr. Hess said with a warm smile for my interest. Behind him, Sir William scowled darkly at such talk, but Mr. Hess, bless him, was immune—if not unaware—of the disapproval directed at him.
I was intrigued. “This meridian, then, what exactly does it do?”
“Well, that is the thing, isn’t it—how can we know? All that is known is that when the Christians came to our fair isle, Rome made it a priority to take possession of the pagan shrines along the line that stretches from Land’s End to East Anglia, and each one, including newer churches and chapels, is dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel. And the line cuts directly through the heart of our village of Avebury.”
Mr. Bedford cleared his throat. “Saint Michael being the great archangel, God’s general, you recall. It was he, in fact, who defeated Lucifer, and cast him straight into hell for the sin of pride.” He was using his pulpit voice, and the final three words rang with victory.
His wife leaned in eagerly. “My husband’s point is interesting. Think of this, Mr. Hess. Saint Michael defeated the devil and this same fallen angel appeared to Adam and Eve in the form of a serpent. Can this be the connection to that stone serpent figure laid into the downs?”
“Just so,” Mr. Hess agreed with a smile that bespoke he was of the same mind.
“Indeed,” Mr. Bedford interjected, adopting his sermonizing voice, “it was to tempt a weak-willed woman that the serpent appeared in Eden. He appealed to Eve’s vanity.”
Mrs. Bedford did me the favor of a silent reprimand in a manner only a wife could deliver. At her scowl, Mr. Bedford appeared alarmed and lapsed into silence.
“Emma!” Mary’s voice was sharp, bringing me around with a start. I realized I had forgotten my sister.
Alyssa had tears in her eyes. “I see you can scarce be bothered with a word I’ve said. Well, if I’m boring you, I’ll take myself away. I do hate to be trying.”
She fled the room. My conscience flared.
Mary leaned forward. “I know she is difficult, Emma, but think of her condition. Pray hurry to console her before she becomes overset.”
Any other time I would have rushed to do exactly that. In fact, I rose, poised to follow my cousin’s advice, but at that moment Mr. Fox appeared. He caught my eye meaningfully.
I realized my unhappy choice. Of all the times I’d wanted to take Alyssa into my arms and comfort her, now that she needed me I could not capitulate.
Mr. Fox was waiting.
Chapter Eleven
We arranged to meet in the small room across the hall, a formal drawing room unused at the moment. Pleading different excuses, we slipped out—he first, then I—and tiptoed across the parquet of the center foyer.
When I entered the room, he crossed to me, and took my hands in his. “Are you…well?” he asked, peering at me deeply.
I daresay, I was not unmoved by his sincere manner, nor the warmth of his hands folded over mine. His nearness, too, made my head feel a bit light, and I was unnaturally affected by the scent of his soap, some exotic, spicy aroma that hinted of the travels to Turkey and Egypt he’d
mentioned.
“I seem to be,” I said, somewhat dazed. I was used to his being aloof, even rude. This attentiveness was disconcerting.
One corner of his mouth jerked in a semblance of a smile. “How many times have you decided that you are insane, or that I am?”
I smiled. “Too numerous to count.”
“And it is not yet a day. It is not something one takes on easily.” He was closer than he needed to be, but it felt comforting. “You have, I must say, responded amazingly well. No shrieking or pulling of hair. You are of an astonishing constitution.”
Yes. I’d noticed that, too. “I suppose I have,” I replied.
“I wonder if you’ve experienced phenomenon like this before. The sightings you described, the shadows and such?”
“No. Never.” I disengaged my hand and walked stiffly to take a seat. “I found the source of the quote carved into the trunk of the hawthorn tree. I told you it reads ‘The Blood is the Life,’ if you recall. That comes directly from the Bible, the Book of Deuteronomy, to be exact, which says…”
I closed my eyes and concentrated, bringing forth the words I’d committed to memory. “‘Only be sure that you do not eat the blood: for the blood is the life; and you may not eat the life with the flesh.’”
“How extraordinary,” he murmured, pacing the width of the expensive Aubusson carpet, then back again. “But if I recall that portion of the Bible, these were just dietary laws for the Jewish people.”
“Yet it reads like an uncanny prohibition against the evil temptation to drink blood and live into eternity. Do you see? It further links the tree to Marius. That place must have a particular significance.”
He paused, staring. “Indeed.”
“Marius is drawn there, and it is located in a rather unique spot. Mr. Hess says that ancients have built an immense temple to the dead here in Avebury, as represented by the stone monument stretching along the entirety of Overton Hill. He was just now expounding on his belief in something called a power meridian, which runs through this area, as well as other spots significant in the lore of pagan mysticism. This was something he called the Saint Michael Line.”