Dom Beauclaire held up a finger as a thought caught hold. “Your King Arthur is somewhat of a Christ figure inasmuch as it is believed he will rise again someday to protect his beloved isle, oui?” His head came up sharply. “Where is Stukeley’s book?”
We kept Avebury, a Temple of the British Druids, always on hand, because Dr. Stukeley’s research was vital to our theories. He opened the book to the detailed drawing of the Great Stone Serpent, and bent over it, studying the figure for a long time.
I peered over his shoulder, but I knew by heart the lay of the sarcen stones, how they formed the shape of a great snake, the West Kennet and Beckhampton avenues forming the spines, flowing off into the tail. The Sanctuary lay at the head of the serpent.
“This is indeed remarkable. It is a serpent, there is no doubt. Very significant. The serpent is regarded as a symbol of eternal life,” Dom Beauclaire said, raising his head at last.
“I had heard this,” I said.
“Now, let us go back to the tale of your King Arthur. Again, renewed life when the king rises again for England, c’est vrai?”
I saw his point, and an idea occurred to me. “Yes. And think, too, of how the Holy Grail was sought by Arthur’s knights because it was believed—still is believed—that it possessed the gift of eternal life for any who drank from it.”
His smile faded into a frown of concentration. “Let us think on this a moment. In this we see the confluence of the profane and the holy. In the vampire, one finds another life after death. It blasphemes eternal life.” His lined face went cold. “This place where this great serpent of stone lies, you said you were told it is where the living and the dead both reside.”
“It is along the lay line, where the worlds of the living and the dead meet,” I clarified. “This is what Mr. Hess told me. He had researched it for all of his life.”
Dom Beauclaire appeared suddenly haggard and old, frighteningly fragile. “And there is the sign of the Dracula, which you have reported seeing in abundance.”
When I saw the fear in his eyes, the bottom dropped out of my heart.
“My dear Madame Andrews, this suggests something quite alarming. There are evils in the ancient world that warriors of virtue have battled, and vanquished. If there lies in this holy prison something so vile, so destructive and virulent that it requires all the charms we see laid out before us, then this thing is terrible indeed. I am thinking it is an ageless vampire, one so great it could not be killed by the tools those who dealt with it had to work with.”
“But what does Marius want with it?” I asked. Then something occurred to me. “Vampires acquire the powers of those they feed upon,” I murmured, seeing it all now. “If he were to release it, then kill it, take it into himself—”
Dom Beauclaire raised a shaking hand to his face. “Imagine the power. If the Dracula is involved here, it has to be immense, unimaginable…My God, Madame Andrews, think of it; the ability to destroy and dominate would be enormous.”
“Perhaps you should rest,” I urged, suddenly alarmed by his palsied state.
“The day will come very soon, Madame Andrews, when I will rest.” He drew himself upright. “Tonight we must work. There is little time to find a way to arm you against this fight. The spring is nearly upon us, and when the time of evil breaks on these lands, something most terrible, most unimaginably wicked, will be unleashed.”
I dreamt of the hawthorn tree coming to life and reaching its deadly arms toward me. A large black crow nestled in its branches, its flat, black eyes like jet beads afire with glee. In the twisting bark, I saw faces flash, ugly, twisted visions of my sister, of Mary and Roger, and Alan. They hated me. Then I saw Marius’s shadow behind them, and the crow cawed in triumph. I tried to cry out to warn them, but they would not listen.
I broke out of my dream, out of sleep, and sat bolt upright as the perfect memory of Marius assembled in my mind, bringing with it a flood of emotions that left me near tears. I still felt him, sometimes. Inside me, in my mind, in my veins.
I quickly rose from bed and dressed, disciplining myself to study my notes. A short while later, someone rapped upon my door. I assumed it was Dom Alliot with my breakfast. “Put it on the table by the bed. Thank you.”
But it was Dom Beauclaire who answered me. “Madame Andrews, I have someone here to see you.”
I immediately started, looking up to find a tall, lanky figure ducking under the transom. He straightened, stared at me, and said, “Hello, Mrs. Andrews.”
Breath seemed quite beyond my capacity. His presence sucked the air from the room, leaving me in a vortex of shock. “Mr…. Mr. Fox. What the devil are you doing here?”
I cannot do justice to the unexpectedly violent emotion that came upon me. It was as if up until that moment, I had not fully comprehended how alone and frightened I’d been, and it was only then, as I looked on his composed face with the exotic cheekbones and obsidian eyes, that it all came crashing over me. I was vaguely aware that I was angry with him, that I was not quite certain just how much I could trust him. And yet, it did not diminish the sheer relief of that particular familiar face, appearing here when I was feeling so isolated and far from home.
I tried to stand, but my knees turned to water. My vision blurred—I am ashamed to admit—with the flux of tears and, as the one side of his mouth pulled upward in wry acknowledgment that my reaction flattered him, I had to hold myself back from foolishly throwing myself into his arms.
Instead, I went rigid—a good Englishwoman’s comfort—and said nothing more while I waited for my pounding heart to quiet.
“Forgive my intrusion,” was his reply. I bit off my reassurances that indeed, it was no intrusion—no, not at all—then the single blade of panic rushed through my happiness. “Henrietta—?”
He stepped forward, holding out a halting hand. “No, no. All is well. Or rather, as well as can be expected. Perhaps it is better to say nothing has changed.”
“Miss Harris, she is still gone?”
He nodded, his brow creasing. “A new nurse has come. But Sebastian is not content to rest his guard of the child. He accompanies them everywhere, and he has set a watch on them at night without their knowing.”
“I doubt there is much Marius misses.”
His eyes sliced a glance to the monk to my right. I, too, looked to Dom Beauclaire. He was happy to see me pleased, I saw.
Then, like icy water dumped shockingly over sun-heated flesh, my body went cold. I remembered Mr. Fox’s deception with the bloodied hawthorn switch. He had lied to me. He had betrayed me.
I drew myself together. “What has brought you here?” I was satisfied at the coldness I’d injected into my tone.
“May we speak privately?”
I did not know at first if Dom Beauclaire would allow this, for it meant, after all, a man and a woman alone in a bedchamber, but he tactfully withdrew with a measured look in my direction.
I had taken no notice that Mr. Fox had his satchel bag with him. He placed it now on the table and drew it open. From its depths he took an oilcloth, folded over so that it looked like nothing more than rags.
He handed it to me. “This belongs in your possession, not mine.”
I unwrapped it with shaking hands, for I already knew what it was. I gazed upon the hawthorn switch, tipped with the vampire lord’s blood, in my palm. “I knew you took it,” I said. “I found it when I went to leave you a note of farewell.”
“Then you already knew I had lied to you,” he said quietly. His dignity composed his face, but his eyes blazed with agony, perhaps even humiliation. Would a man such as this commit dishonor without good reason? I asked myself. I wanted so badly to believe in him.
“Why?” I pleaded, uttering the single word softly but with passion.
“Why did I take it, or why did I lie?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“You know why I took it.” His nostrils flared, pride asserting itself to the fore. “There is vampire blood on that thi
ng, and although I do not know how to harness it, there is no doubt it holds great power. Power I wished to use to defeat Marius.”
“You kept it from me. Did you think I would misuse it? Squander it?”
“I lied,” he said carefully, “to protect myself.” He bowed his head, gesturing to what I held in my hand. “But you must have it, learn how to use it. You are Dhampir, you will know what to do.”
“But I do not.”
“Then you will. Or we will together. It is not an easy thing for me, Emma. I have been alone a very, very long time—much longer than you can even imagine. I can only say I have come to understand that you and I, we must allow nothing to come between us. If we are to have any chance in this war, we must stand together.”
I gazed at the sharpened point, black with the dried blood. “I did read something in a journal here, kept by a Greek hunter who studied the nature and use of vampire blood. It said something about the power held by a revenant’s blood being the result of how the vampire absorbed the life, the essence, and the strengths or weaknesses of those they feed upon.”
Fox agreed. “Of course. The blood is the life. Consuming life feeds the vampire, its victims’ blood feeds its blood. And life is the essence of magic.” He leaned forward eagerly. “What of the possession of vampire blood by another vampire? Would that give the possessor the same power to absorb the energy of its victim?”
“I…” I had not read anything to answer that specific question. But something stirred inside, the faint vestiges of knowing. I somehow knew the communion of blood, even through the medium of the stick, would form a bond, though I did not understand how or why. I said, therefore, only: “I do not know.”
Mr. Fox pierced me with a look, and I was surprised by the desperation, the gravity I saw there. He had told Father Luke that Marius had taken something from him. He wanted very badly to destroy the vampire lord, and I do not think I had known until that moment how fervently and single-mindedly he was dedicated to that goal.
He pressed my hand, in which lay the tainted switch. “When the time comes,” he said to me, “you may know what to do.”
He drew up a stool. Folding his hands on the table, he trained his gaze on his grasped fingers. “You must think me craven,” he said at last.
I settled on the edge of the bed. “I do not recall it ever mattering to you one way or the other what my opinion was.”
“That was never true. If I am reserved…it is with reason.” He touched a pile of books, his long fingers reverent as they ran lightly over the leather bindings.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
He gave a small chuckle, a hint of the charm that had so captivated me. “I have been tracking vampires for years. Finding one Englishwoman in France was no challenge.”
His eyes drifted down to the book open on the table. Idly he thumbed the pages. “You know, Emma, I came here to bring you back.”
I did not feel ready to leave. The very thought made me acutely, uncomfortably aware of my lack of knowledge. “I know Beltane is not far off. But I need more time.”
“I need you with me.” He seemed to catch himself, adding, “If we are to kill Marius and save Henrietta, we must remain together. For now.”
How foolish I was to be disappointed.
“I should like to rest and eat,” he said, taking his leave. “I would like to join you in the archive later, if I may. Dom Beauclaire suggested it, but it must be agreeable to you.”
“Of course,” I replied. When he’d gone, I felt different. Better. I did not know why his presence here made me glad, for he had not brought any news to improve our situation, but I was—for once—not alone.
Fox was already with Dom Beauclaire when I entered the room where we had been working. “Ah, Madame Andrews,” Dom Beauclaire said in greeting, “I have asked Mr. Fox what it is he wishes most to learn, and he has told me it is the history, and perhaps insight into the purpose, of this priest of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing.”
I was taken aback. “Father Luke?”
“You may consult the source materials yourself, but I shall summarize it for you in the interests of time. The knighthood does indeed exist. It was formed first as a Royal Brotherhood of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing in Portugal in the wake of victory in the Holy Land during the crusades.”
He held up a cautionary finger at my frown of confusion. “Apocryphal annals tell a different tale. You see, after returning victorious in the wake of their battle with the Saracens, some of the knights fell under a peculiar malaise, one you would find familiar as the indications of the vampire. The Order went into action to cleanse the villages of this plague. However, this meant a purge of military heroes who had fought bravely. It caused a terrible public outcry against the Order. The knighthood fell into disuse after this scandal, and it was generally believed to have been disbanded.”
“But it was not,” I guessed.
“They have existed as a secret society of extirpators of all manner of beings beyond the realm of mortal justice who would harm men’s bodies, and souls. They are not Dhampir, not merely hunters, but guardians and warriors against creatures you or I could never imagine, much less face. Much less fight, for it requires great spiritual strength as well as physical skill.” His face was chillingly stony, his eyes flat. I guessed he knew far more particulars than he was sharing. I was grateful for his discretion. I was already too burdened to be curious.
“Then Father Luke was correct,” I said to Fox. “He is indeed well equipped to battle Marius.”
But Fox was still grim. “He is entrusted with the guardianship of the thing imprisoned on The Sanctuary, not destroying Marius.”
Dom Beauclaire agreed. “The Order is strict, specific, and very careful in the priests they select. These are not shepherds. These are warriors prepared to kill for duty.” Dom Beauclaire wagged his bent finger and peered at us intently. “Have a care with this priest. His allegiance to his cause will be absolute. And he will be ready to do whatever his duty demands to see the good of the world protected.”
“But his goal is ours,” I protested. I noticed how weak I sounded, and realized I voiced more of a wish than a certainty.
“Do not be so certain. He has a strong sense of purpose, oui? And it is not concerned with Marius, or your little Henrietta. His duty is to the Church, and his sacred mission.”
I felt deflated. Much as I would like to believe otherwise, it seemed Father Luke could prove dangerous, if he thought our cause endangered his. I turned to Fox. “His path is likely to cross ours in any event. We have no choice but to include him.”
“Agreed. We keep him close. But we dare not trust him.”
Our mistake came to me in the quiet of my room. I cannot say what triggered it, or for how long all that figured behind the moment of epiphany had been lying dormant in my brain. I know Father Luke and his secret order of knights were much on my mind. I kept thinking of that painting, the one of Saint Michael, and how the serpent Satan had gnashed his gleaming fangs in frustration at his victorious foe. I had seen fangs like that with my own eyes, snapping maliciously for my blood.
And serpents were signs of eternal life, but they were also symbols of evil. The eternal vampire, foul creature, vanquished by sainted knight or archangel. Michael. George.
And the Great Stone Serpent, made of stone and more ancient than history itself, marking the land where forces raged, bringing life and death together.
And the season of spring. Renewal and Life, with one small festival of evil. Beltane, or May Day…
No, I thought. My heart began to pound, heralding the insight before it resolved into clarity. Not May Day. Somehow, I suddenly knew.
Mr. Hess had spoken of the importance of the Eve of Saint George, a feast of evil to rival All Hallows’ Eve. Both holy days were preceded by an evening of revelry of wickedness that was allowed to reign briefly free and strong.
’Twas the month before the month of May. Coleridge’s ope
ning line from the eerie, haunting tale of poor, ill-fated Christabel, who was visited by the evil Geraldine in a midnight garden and destroyed…
I gasped as it came to me. My eyes shot wide and stared unseeing. The high unholy day which Marius awaited was the Eve of Saint George. April 22—not even so much as a fortnight away. And I was here, in France! It would take much of that time just to travel all the way back to England.
I flew down the ancient corridors of the château. As for tune would have it, I found Alliot quickly. “Take me to Mr. Fox’s chamber,” I instructed. “And summon Dom Beauclaire at once.”
The room given to Mr. Fox was not far. When I pounded insistently on his door, he readily answered, his shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was wet and he was holding a damp flannel square which dripped unheedingly upon the floor. The sight of him in such a state of dishabille threw me into a deep flush, but I pushed past into his room and declared, “It is not Beltane, Valerian! Marius shall act on April 22, the Eve of Saint George. A good eight days earlier than we thought!”
He caught my hand, making me stop and face him. His touch was cool and damp, and I was aware how the spicy scent of his soap tingled in my nostrils. We stood uncomfortably close. His dark eyes bored into mine as he assimilated my announcement.
I said quietly, “We’ve nearly run out of time already.”
Dom Beauclaire appeared, supported by Alliot on one side and his battered cane on the other. I repeated what I’d told Fox. “I must return to England,” I told him. “We have only twelve days to prepare. I will leave for Calais in the morning with Mr. Fox and look for a ship.”
His old eyes glittered and he shook his head. “Non,” he barked, the sound abrupt and distinctly French. “You are not ready.”
His face was stern, wearing its age with a steely dignity that was hard to refuse. In all of our time together, I had never seen him anything less than agreeable, but his proud temper asserted itself now. “You are the guardian of more than the child you love. All children need you. The world needs you, Madame Andrews. You must be certain you have done all you can to be ready. Take more time with me.”
Descent into Dust Page 24
