The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  “What is it?” It was beautifully made, the plastic as cool and hard as ivory and the size of a large mango. She mimed unscrewing it, and he found that there was a fine line dividing it across the middle. As he started to loosen it one end opened like a flower. He stopped turning, recognizing it from Inquisition diagrams. “It’s—it’s a choke pear. A torture device.”

  “They used to call them ‘pears of anguish.’ Now, it’s an extreme form of sex play.”

  He closed the thing and handed it back to her. “Extreme? I would have thought dangerous.”

  “Pain, carefully controlled, can also be pleasurable. The individual, couple or group explore these tools as far as they are able, in a moment of complete trust and intimacy.” She shrugged. “Sensation is sensation, pleasure and pain are very close. Danger can be…arousing.”

  “Have you—” He managed to avoid finishing the sentence.

  She smiled and put the object back in the case. “My method of research is immersive participation.”

  He stared at her, slightly shocked, slightly aroused.

  Her smile widened. “So I gain the trust of people who do use such objects, and I interview them.”

  His face must have given away his reaction, because she laughed out loud. “You really are very English, aren’t you? I thought with a name like Gee-shar, you would be a little more—French.”

  “The Guichards emigrated to England in the nineteenth century. My father worked in the civil service, terribly old school and extra English.”

  “And your mother?”

  “His one divergence from the mainstream. Her name was Amélie Verdier, she was a teacher from the Ivory Coast, République de Côte d’Ivoire.” He slipped easily into the French. “They met when he was working for the diplomatic service. Her grandmother was Mandé.”

  “So you are part African?” She smiled.

  “I spent some of my childhood traveling around West Africa. I still consult there.”

  She laid her slim hand next to his, comparing her darker tone with his tanned skin. “But your beautiful green eyes, they came from your father?”

  He nodded, feeling a faint blush at the compliment, but gestured at the cases lining the wall to change the subject. “This is all fascinating. These blood-drinking clubs, are they difficult to attend?”

  She smiled. “Most are very exclusive, and I doubt you would want to attempt the membership—test.” She smiled to herself, as if at some private joke. “No, I think you need to meet Julian Prudhomme.”

  “Who is?”

  She was disturbingly close, almost touching his arm as she turned back to the exhibits. “He’s someone I’ve been working with who happens to belong to one of these clubs. I could introduce you.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped away from her scent and her warmth, and pulled his collar away from his throat.

  She followed him, laying a hand on his forearm for a moment. “You have to loosen up, Felix. You’re in New Orleans now.”

  He smiled, feeling awkward and too hot in the spring weather drifting in the open window. “I might need a few days to acclimatize. It was a lot cooler in England.”

  “And you’ll like Julian,” she continued. “He’s sexy and funny, and smart. He knows all about blood and its occult properties.”

  “You said you were working with him?”

  “We share an interest in healing rituals.”

  Felix looked across the campus from the high window, at students sitting in groups on the grass. “Is he a researcher too?”

  “Much better. He’s a babalorisha, a priest of the local Santería tradition. A sorcerer.”

  Chapter 6

  Riches are on display even where utter poverty exists. Venice is all stolen wealth, promises and lies. But I have found also great spirits among the imposture, strong men whose characters write Venice’s history with their adventures.

  —EDWARD KELLEY, 1586, Venice

  I was bedded within a sumptuous chamber, with a mattress set up for myself in a room overlooking the canal. I awoke when a soft-footed servant made up a fire, bade me good morning in his own language, and returned with breakfast. Good bread, still fresh, that must have been baked overnight, served with dried meats full of spices. I broke my fast and dressed myself in my borrowed clothes. I opened the door to find another servant awaiting me, who led me to the large chamber from the evening before. Here Marinello sat in conversation with the cardinal, who inclined his head toward me, and then I saw a third man seated. It was the fat little man who had so cruelly used me on my arrival—I was shocked to see him drinking from one of the lustrous glasses, and casting a sly eye over me.

  “Sirrah!” I exclaimed, forgetting for a moment that none but I spoke English. I turned to the ponderous wording of Latin. “I respectfully ask for the return of my belongings, immediately.”

  The man cocked an eyebrow at Marinello.

  “That is all arranged, Master Kelley,” said my lord. “A simple transfer of coins in exchange for these.”

  He held in his hand the books I had chosen to risk upon this journey: one essential to my task, the others filled with my notes and jottings, and my leather satchels of clothes and other belongings.

  “I thank you, of course, my lord,” I said, while bowing deep. “But that man is a thief, and a ruffian.”

  My lord waved at the fat man, who rose instantly while grinning with his blackened teeth. “He certainly is. Bezio mistook your purpose, Master Kelley. He had no idea you were a man of such learning and knowledge.”

  Bezio babbled a little in his own tongue to Marinello, then addressed me in fair Latin.

  “No man, great or humble,” the rogue said, “travels without a servant, unless he be a villain or a spy.” He spread his hands before me, as if offering me some truth. “I am a loyal Venetian. I must defend our vulnerable state.”

  I stretched out a hand for my books, but Marinello did not give them to me, opening one instead. It was a stained and much annotated version of the Demonica by Bacon, and within it were diverse papers and diagrams I had made in Dee’s great inquiry upon the nature of death. My face heated under my beard.

  “You are indeed much traveled,” Marinello said, turning another page. “London, Marseilles, Prague, Vienna, Krakow. Your patron is the Holy Roman Emperor, Rudolf?”

  “Indeed.” I puffed my chest out a little at that. “Perhaps I shall speak with his ambassador while I am here.”

  “You could try,” said Marinello, but he smiled slyly, “though he is likely to hand you to the Inquisition as a heretic Protestant.”

  I swallowed the lump that congealed in my throat. I looked at the cardinal, and he was openly smirking. “I thought Venice was secular.”

  “Venice, my dear Kelley, is whatever a rich man wants to make of it. Poor men…” He shrugged. “For poor men, Venice is a harsh mistress. And at the moment you don’t even own the clothes you stand in.”

  I turned to Bezio. “But my money, my letters, my notebooks—”

  He shrugged. “Money? I found no gold.”

  My chest tightened at the loss of my purse, with as many as forty golden crowns. “My papers, then.”

  The fat rogue sighed, and reached into some inner pocket. He handed me the leather packet and I opened it, thumbing through the documents. My introductions and promissory notes all seemed present. Bezio looked to Marinello, who nodded, and held out his own hand to me.

  “I think,” said the suddenly stern lord, “that I had better inspect these, Master Kelley. It would not do to pass letters that could be seen as treasonable.”

  “I merely have letters of introduction that say I am the agent of Lord Robert Dannick of England.” I gave them into his outstretched hand.

  Marinello pointed a finger at the door and Bezio bowed deeply to him, less so to me, and kissed the hand of the cardinal, who seemed half asleep. He drew the door shut—almost. Marinello stood, walked over and put his boot against it to close it properly, then beckoned to m
e to follow him to the window.

  He opened first one letter, then another. “Lord Dannick, hm? A great landowner in your country, no doubt?”

  “Indeed.” I pointed at one passage. “I was his son’s tutor at Cambridge, and on his travels abroad I acted as his guide.”

  “Better we speak in German, do you not think?” he murmured to me. “Since Latin is known to all learned men, and English is—impossible.” I was glad now of the notes that I had written in that “impossible” language. He finally handed over the packet and the papers.

  “Certainly,” I replied in German, better since I have resided in Bohemia. I tucked my precious papers away, and placed the leather case within my bag.

  “I have been approached by someone who wishes to meet you.” He stepped over to the fire, resting a boot that stretched above his knee on the fender. He dressed more like a seafaring pirate than a noble of Venice, in a black leather baldric ornamented with silver studs. A leather frog rested upon his hip, ready to take I thought a giant sword or cutlass. He smiled at me. “Before you rose this morning, discreet inquiries had been made of my servants, and, more directly, to the cardinal. A guest of the doge, working through intermediaries, seeks an audience.” He reached up to the fireplace and took down a letter with a great black seal upon it, sagging open.

  I had convinced myself of my incognito, but clearly I was mistaken. “Who is this person?”

  “I don’t know, but they are apparently interested in some work you did in Poland or Hungary or some such place, with the learned Dr. Dee.” I flinched, and looked over at the cardinal. Despite his chin, dropped onto his thin chest, I was not convinced of the priest’s deafness nor sleep.

  I lowered my voice. “That work we have pledged never to discuss with others. We were led astray by forces of evil that even now we do not understand.”

  Marinello nodded slowly. “Well, it is a large purse for you, and for me, if you consent to a single meeting. You are here as an agent of your master, Lord Dannick, not Dr. Dee. What you choose to divulge is your business, not theirs.”

  “I am an agent of Lord Robert, yes. But I also wish to speak to several scholars of Venice, to help me with my own work.”

  Marinello’s smile disappeared into a frown as if the sun had gone in. “What is the nature of this work, Master Kelley? And speak the truth, for I may be a great help to you, or a hindrance.”

  I glanced at the cardinal, and lowered my voice. “I am upon a quest, to divine the secrets of alchemy.”

  “Alchemy? Sorcery, more like. Perhaps I should hand you to the Inquisition myself.”

  “It is a legitimate area for research,” I said, hastily, “entirely done to glory in God and his works. We divine the nature of the universe He created.”

  “And make ourselves rich along the way?” He stroked his thick beard. “Is that God’s purpose, also, or Man’s?”

  I was silent, unwilling to enter into the spiritual arguments as Dee might have done. Anyway, I was confident of breaching the mystery of gold’s purity by myself. My actual purpose, on behalf of my sponsor, was more important.

  Marinello leaned close, looking deeply into my eyes, and held the letter out to me. I took it, but his fingers still grasped the other end. “My little friend, you need to know what dangers face you in Venice. This is a closed state, a place of suspicions and stories. Your arrival has already sparked rumors and questions.”

  I stood still, clutching my end of the heavy, folded paper, waiting for him to release his. I took some offense—I am of middle height, indeed, and slight, but I am no “little man,” nor am I unable to judge a man’s purpose myself.

  Marinello released it with a sudden laugh. “Let me say then, Edward Kelley, that in Venice you need a friend. I will be that friend, and even fill your sadly empty purse with coins, if you will meet this one person, and answer his questions. How say you?”

  “Just questions?”

  “And you need not breach that confidence that you hold dear. All I ask is that I be allowed to join you and listen, and if needs be protect you.”

  I opened the letter, which was worded in the most cordial terms.

  “My Lord Marinello, if it will please Your Lordship, a person of high scholarship seeks an introduction to a learned and famous gentleman presently enjoying your patronage. This gentleman being one Edward Kelley, well known to his beloved majesty King Istvan Báthory, and being of assistance to him in Transylvania. My master permits me to offer a reward to Master Kelley and to yourself, upon a single meeting and conversation at your convenience.”

  It was signed with some scribble. With some difficulty I unraveled it as a László Bánki, secretary.

  “Very well,” I said, looking up at Marinello. “I will serve you and this guest of the doge in any way that I can, within my conscience.”

  He smiled, and reached inside his jacket for a small bag, which clinked musically. He tossed the money to me. “You will need a few coins for your stay.”

  I thanked him, even as I regretted the loss of the heavy purse I had carried all the way from England.

  “I would like to see something of your city,” I said, thinking of the alchemists who might be willing to see me.

  “Remember, in Venice you will be considered a spy if you do anything in private beyond eat, drink or fornicate,” he warned. “Speak to a Venetian in private and they can be impeached. I will arrange a public meeting for your admirer, and we will both be rewarded.”

  I bowed in real gratitude, for my heart had been heavy and my purse empty. “Thank you, my Lord Marinello.”

  He smiled at me. “You have saved me from tedium, my little man, and none is more deadly to a sea captain than boredom.”

  Chapter 7

  PRESENT DAY: NEW ORLEANS

  Felix heard his phone ding as he reached his hotel room. It had been a long day guest lecturing in one of Gina’s classes. Sadie had left another message on his mobile phone and the pictures she had attached made him smile. Despite being in a coma for several weeks only a few months ago, Sadie had bounced back. She also had accepted him into her unusual new family instantly, slotting him in somewhere between surrogate father and co-conspirator. He checked his watch, and dialed the number.

  “Hello, Sadie.” There seemed to be a lot of noise going on in the background.

  “Felix! Hang on, I have to turn the telly down…” The sound reduced. “That’s better. Jack’s in the shower, she’s been helping hack all the plaster off the front-room walls. It’s soaked in grease and smoke, you know, from the old lady. She was burned.”

  “Oh.” A moment’s discomfort at the reality of Sadie’s involvement in restoring the house shot through him. “Are you all right with that?”

  “It stinks, that’s all.” She scuffled and he could hear her sigh. “It’s nicer up here, though, than in Devon. I’ve been out in the car loads of times, and I’ve had my hair dyed bright red. It looks really cool. And Jack let me choose some new clothes for my birthday.”

  “Oh. Good.” Anything that made her look different from the abducted Sadie Williams, tragic victim of a fire in Devon, had to be a good idea.

  “Everyone thinks I have cancer, which is kind of weird, but they’re really nice. We went shopping for furniture, too. Jack wanted this old secondhand stuff, but I did get her to buy a few new bits too. You’ll have to come up and see it when it’s done.”

  “I will.” He wondered whether Jack would want that, but he felt responsible for Sadie. “There’s a package in the post for your birthday, I don’t know when it will get there.”

  “Thank you.” She sounded like she was smiling. “And my mum’s coming up to stay soon, only we have to pretend she’s my auntie.”

  “You sound like you’ve adapted really well.” He was surprised that Sadie wasn’t missing her mother more, but after the coma Sadie seemed to have accepted the strange conditions of living on borrowed time.

  “Jack makes me eat all this organic stuff because I can�
��t handle chemicals, but she’s found this amazing shop in Ambleside, it has fantastic organic ice cream. The landlady at the B&B, she makes me an organic breakfast, and we’re staying for another couple of weeks. She even got Jack chatting.”

  Felix couldn’t imagine Jack making small talk. “How is she?”

  “Good. Strong, since—you know. A bit sad, though.”

  “Sad?”

  “Just in the evenings. She looks down. When we’re at the house she’s busy, and we have a bit of a laugh, and the builders joke with us. One of them is,” she dropped her voice, “really flirty with her, which is even funnier. She goes red when he talks to her. But then she gets sad.”

  He felt a pang of something, but refused to consider whether it was jealousy.

  Sadie carried on chattering. “What about you? Are you still in America?”

  “I’m in New Orleans. It’s warm here, really nice.”

  “So, what exactly are you doing?”

  He opened his mouth, and closed it again. “Uh, I’m hoping to meet with some people who know something about borrowed time.”

  “You’re looking into the blood-drinking thing, aren’t you?” He couldn’t get much past Sadie: she was sharply observant. “To help Jack? Because I know you’re worried about what happened when she did—though that is completely gross.”

  “I’m looking into it.” He opened the wardrobe and wondered what to wear to a blood-drinking fetish club. “Only I don’t really understand why normal people would drink human blood.”

  “There’s lots of kinky vampire groups on the Internet.” Sadie rustled something, then her voice was a bit distorted. “Very strange.” She sounded as if she were eating something.

  “Well, I have to get ready to meet some kinky vampire people, and I have no idea what to wear. What are you crunching?”

  Indistinctly, she muttered, “Organic sherbet lemon.” Then, more clearly, “Wear one of your old-man suits. That will keep you safe.” She started laughing. “Isn’t it a bit late to go out?”