"Karl, wait," she whispered, but he ignored her. His gaze fixed on the closed door of the drawing room, he walked steadily towards it. The silence hung in cold heavy sheets and she wanted to pull him back, to warn him… but it was too late. He was turning the handle.
The door opened onto a cave of horrors. The light dazzled Charlotte's dark-accustomed eyes, but through the glare she saw a scene of bizarre chaos. A charade? she thought, trying to force rationality into it. No. Death lay ravelled up in the gold and rose-red shadows.
The room looked as if it had been ransacked. All the guests sat motionless in their chairs. Only one figure was on her feet, a woman in glittering red with scarlet hair to her waist. She was moving slowly round the room with a deliberation that made her every gesture shine with malevolence. She pulled the shawl off a lamp, tipping it over; she picked up a photograph, slammed it down so the glass cracked; she stopped and glared down at each man or woman in turn, appraising them, despising them.
Some of the guests were slumped in their seats, apparently unconscious; others were staring at the woman, blank-eyed. She was in complete, hypnotic control. Charlotte did not know why the slight of this slender creature inspired such terror, but it was like waiting for a scorpion to strike.
The woman stopped by a young man with shiny black hair. She pierced him with her malign gaze; he stared back, lips working as if he were trying to articulate a protest. Then she seized his collar and pulled him up bodily—he was tall and heavy, yet she held him one-handed as if he weighed nothing—so that he hung from her grasp at an undignified angle, his eyes bulging.
She bit into his throat. Her shoulders rose, the muscles of her bare back tightening with pleasure; but after a second or two she threw him aside as if he were a carcass. A groan trickled from his throat and his eyes were marbled red with burst vessels.
Even then, no one moved, no one reacted. Even Karl seemed transfixed.
At last he said, "Ilona."
The woman stopped in the centre of the room and faced him, hands on hips. She was smaller than Charlotte, with large brown eyes in a delicate, cloud-pale face. Her hair was brilliant poppy-scarlet, circled by a bandeau and flowing to her waist over the fiery dress. Anger and venom flowed from her in a silent winter gale. She was the hub of the nightmare that was coiling round Charlotte's heart.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me, Father." Her voice was accented, clipped.
"What are you doing here?"
"If you hadn't been so pre-occupied with her—" she gave Charlotte a look of searing contempt—"you might have guessed by now. Games, Father. I will show you games."
As she turned away, Karl stepped into the room and pulled the two bespectacled women off one of the sofas. "Get out," he said, pushing them towards the door. "All of you, get out of here!" Charlotte had so rarely heard him raise his voice; the commanding power of it was electrifying.
That broke the spell. Suddenly people were crying out, falling over each other to escape, and Ilona was snatching at anyone who came near her, her eyes demented, her hair as wild as snakes. The front door banged open, the voices floated out into the square. Cold air swirled in, but the room was not quite empty. Seven people remained slumped in their seats. Were they drunk or drugged, Charlotte wondered; or was it the bite of a vampire that had left them insensible? The delicate sips that Stefan and Niklas had stolen… or Ilona's murderous thirst?
Charlotte stood pressed against the doorframe, horrified, powerless. To her alarm she saw that Fleur was one of those who hadn't moved. She remained in her chair, eyes closed. Clive, sitting upright on a sofa opposite the door, was the only one who appeared to be conscious, but he was staring into space as if too shocked to react.
His voice betraying no emotion, Karl said, "Ilona, stop this."
Ilona ignored him, went into the corner and picked up the fat poetry critic from a chaise-longue. The woman came out of her stupor and squawked in pain as Ilona took a brief drink and hefted her aside. Charlotte gazed at Fleur, willing her to wake up, to escape, but her sister's eyes remained closed and her chest rose and fell unevenly.
"Fleur… " Charlotte started to go to her, stopped dead. Karl was crossing the room almost faster than she could register, hands outstretched to seize his daughter—but as he reached her, there was a cold shifting of the air and Ilona vanished. A moment later she reappeared next to Fleur's chair.
"No, leave her alone!" Charlotte cried. As she rushed forward, Ilona's hand lashed out across an impossible distance and caught her whip-like across the cheek. The blow flung Charlotte backwards into a wall and she slid to the floor with bloody points of light stabbing her eyes. Half-stunned, she watched as the scene unwound like a flickering slow-motion film.
Ilona gathered up the oblivious Fleur like a rag doll and stood facing Karl. She was a thin ruby-red flame, exquisite and lethal. "What are you staring at, Karl? Isn't this how a true vampire should behave? You only play at it, just as you only play at defying Kristian. But I am not a ball to be thrown about between you."
"No one has ever thought you were that," Karl said, his voice low and measured. "Let her go, Ilona. Come with me and we'll talk."
"About what? We talk all day and all I learn is that Kristian has wormed his way into your heart by threatening this human family. Harming me was not enough to bring you back—yet you'd come back to protect these?'' She shook Fleur in violent emphasis. Charlotte tried to cry out, could not make a sound. "But what if they were dead, Karl? What could he threaten you with then?"
At these words, Karl launched himself towards Ilona. Too late. Mouth open, Ilona lifted Fleur and tore out her throat as easily as a dog wolfing a mouthful of butter. When Karl reached Ilona, with a crystalline snap she vanished again to reappear on the far side of the room like a glinting red knife.
They were speaking German now, a thin cold stream of anger—but Charlotte could only stare at Fleur lying over the arm of the chair as if her back were broken; her head hanging back, eyes open, the wound in her throat stretched wide like a mouth, dark and bright blood pouring from the torn vessels. She went on breathing for a few seconds, the breath bleeding out of her in faint grunts until there was none left.
Charlotte turned sick and faint yet she found herself crawling across the carpet, out of her mind, half-blinded by anguish. Sobs of shock came out of her like coughs. She hauled herself onto her knees on the arm of the chair and took her sister in her arms… but the body was a soft weightless husk, all the sparkling life-force gone.
"No… " the strength of the denial seemed to shake her apart, but when the wail burst from her mouth it was soundless; her throat was full of rust. You can't be—You must wake up, we were going to talk to each other, Fleur. Tomorrow. All the things we haven't said yet…
A cold draught blew on her from the doorway, and she heard voices outside, the gruff crescendo of a car. She looked up and that was when she realised that Clive was not just staring into space but dead. That Ilona must have killed him too, before Charlotte and Karl had come into the room.
Charlotte only half-registered the sounds outside; people shouting, footsteps, a man's voice. The sounds were in the hallway now but they were so far away, not her concern…
But then she felt another crisp shiver of air, like ice crystals sifting over snow, a brief wrenching emptiness. Ilona was gone, and this time she did not reappear. A second later, Anne and David appeared in the doorway. Only Karl remained, Karl who no longer had the power to escape into the Crystal Ring.
Charlotte held onto Fleur's cold hands and despair rolled through her. This was what it came to, her love for Karl. This horror.
***
David had driven at reckless speed from Hertfordshire, arriving in London before ten o'clock. Turning into Fleur's square, he and Anne saw a number of figures on the pavement, shadowy in the streetlights.
"Lot of drunks about," he commented.
"No, not drunks," said Anne. "Something's going on."
"Oh, Captain Neville, thank God it's you!" Jenny cried, breathless. "I don't what's goin' on: I was in the kitchen and I heard people start screamin' and carryin' on—I'm goin' to call the police!" She hurried on across the square.
"What the devil—" In a few strides David was inside the house, Anne close behind. In the doorway to the drawing room he froze, confronted by a scene worse than anything he had anticipated.
Charlotte was huddled on the floor, hair dishevelled, head bowed on Fleur's knee—and Fleur's face was turned to the ceiling, grape-mauve and sunken, her throat a lake of blood.
A wave of revulsion, grief; such horrors he'd seen in the trenches but nothing, nothing to compare with this; his own sister, safe at home, safe, in her own drawing room… Behind him, he heard Anne gasp; too late to shield her from the sight. He caught the doorframe for support, held down the sickness. The War had trained him in this, at least; no quarter for emotion until the task in hand was finished.
Trembling, David looked round the room. Clive was slumped on the sofa, eyes glassy and staring—Christ, him too—and there were four or five others, whom David did not know, lying motionless about the room.
And in the centre of the room stood von Wultendorf, gazing at David, a lamp behind him turning his hair to a blood-red halo. David realised he had turned Karl into an unrecognisable monster in his mind. It was actually a shock to see that he looked no different; slender and self-contained, the same aristocratic face and intense honey-brown eyes. A gentleman… with the evidence of his monstrosity strewn all around him.
All at once, the rage within David was very controlled, smooth and hard as a missile. He knew with absolute clarity that he must kill von Wultendorf.
He raised his service revolver, though he knew bullets had had no effect on the vampire before. But the reassuring weight helped him focus his thoughts.
As he did so, Anne went past him into the room and hauled Charlotte up from the floor. David didn't try to stop her; he was glad of her cool-headedness and swift action. His heart was in his mouth as he waited for some lightning counter-move on the vampire's part. Karl did not move. Anne half-carried Charlotte the few steps to the door and took her into the hall; knowing what David planned and doing just the right thing.
"All right, von Wultendorf," he said, level and grim. "It's over."
He fired the gun, three times.
The bullets went through the vampire's chest. He reeled back from the impact, righted himself, stood gazing at David as if nothing had happened.
He heard Charlotte crying out, "Make them stop! Make them stop!" while Anne tried desperately to calm her.
Then von Wultendorf spoke. "Charlotte was to have been safely returned to you, and you would never have seen or heard of me again. There is no need for this."
"No need?" David could barely speak. "By God, you are a coward! You protect yourself by abducting an innocent young woman, commit the vilest of murders, and now you're trying—"
"I have harmed no one in this room," said von Wultendorf, emotionless.
David was suddenly blinded by tears. "My sister!" he shouted hoarsely, pointing at Fleur. He blinked the tears away, hardened his voice. "A coward and a liar. Don't waste your breath. I'll give you just one chance to answer for your crimes before I do justice—if you've the nerve to say anything in your own defence."
Karl looked at David in such a strange, abstracted way that he seemed to be staring straight through him, his thoughts elsewhere. David began to feel disoriented and to lose his resolve; he realised he was being hypnotised but there was nothing he could do to fight it. He was about to drop the gun… then the vampire lowered his gaze, shaking his head wearily.
"No, I have nothing to say. If a shepherd knew that a wolf had preyed upon his flock, what choice would he have but to pursue and destroy the beast? There is no doubt that you are a good shepherd, Captain Neville."
Shaken by this glimpse of his unhuman powers, David steadied himself. Could he really kill this creature in cold blood? Fleur, in the corner of his eye; Edward, Charlotte, Maddy… There's not one of us this devil hasn't harmed—by Christ, yes I can. His bayonet hung beneath his coat, his only hope if bullets could not prevail.
"However," the vampire went on. "I would advise you to let me go unhindered. If you do not… I can kill you with considerably more ease than you can kill me."
From the doorway, Anne said, "Perhaps he's right, David." Her voice shook. "What use is it for anyone else to get hurt? Let him just go away and leave us alone."
"Anne, please don't interfere. Look after Charlotte."
"Charlotte said he can't be killed! If he murders you, where will that leave us?"
Karl said softly, "Miss Saunders has a point." There was nothing fiend-like about him, nothing mocking or ambiguous, not even simple defensiveness or anger. Is it possible that Anne's right? he thought. No, even he can't be indestructible. If I don't act now I never will.
"Anne, get back."
"David—"
"Get back!" he shouted, so sharp that she obeyed. And then he fired again, aiming for the vampire's head this time.
Two shots went wide. The third went straight through Karl's forehead; surely, however fast the brain could heal—if it could heal—it would disorient him for long enough—
But Karl was coming for him, impossibly fast, like flame. David never knew how his own hand moved swiftly enough, but wondrously the bayonet was in his palm in place of the revolver. He swung the blade to connect with the flesh of the vampire's neck, just as the white hands would have seized him. Von Wultendorf fell back, hands out to defend himself like skeletal supplicants. For a moment he caught the bayonet blade with terrible strength. Then David wrenched it free and was hacking furiously, again and again, his own harsh breath and blood thundering through his ears, as the neck slowly split away from the body. The spinal column cracked, the stump gave up an ooze of semi-liquid blood… and the vampire lay dead, decapitated.
David lurched away, his sight turning black with dizziness, retching for breath.
There were shouts, dark uniforms moving around him… policemen. He dropped the bayonet, drained and resigned. Then Charlotte came rushing towards him—Why didn't they keep her out of here, idiots!—and he caught her arms, tried to soothe her although there was hysteria in his own voice.
"It's all right, old girl. It's over. He's dead."
But she wrenched away from him. "No, he can't be dead, he can't be!"
To David's dismay she flung herself on Karl's body, choking out sobs of absolute, soul-racking grief. David gaped at her, almost more horrified by this than by anything that had gone before. She's acting as if she still loved him but she can't have done, it's impossible…
And yet Charlotte was crying out his name with a desperation that turned David cold and sick with misery, went on crying even as they dragged her off his body and pulled her, struggling, out of that place of death.
"Karl. Karl. Karl!
* * *
PART THREE
He's sure to come a-calling
When the shades of night are drawn
A twisted blackthorn in his hand
He'll linger until dawn
You wish to stay forever young
But only he knows how;
It's his blessing, it's his curse
And it's your decision now…
—Horslips
Ride to Hell
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
Silent All Day
Anne spent much of the stark, sleepless night sitting be side a hospital bed, watching over Charlotte. Dr Neville and Elizabeth were on their way to London, but until they arrived Anne was keeping the vigil on her own. Charlotte had been sedated but she fought
to stay awake, her eyelids flickering in her colourless face. "Where's David?"
"He's all right. He's safe," said Anne, and Charlotte drifted into sleep. Anne did not want to shield her from the truth, but now was not the time to tell her that David had been arrested for Karl's murder.
Anne was haunted endlessly by the dreadful scenes of that evening; Fleur, lying over the arm of her chair with her throat torn; the brief, bloody horror of David's fight with Karl; and Charlotte pouring out her misery over Karl's headless corpse.
What could have happened in the minutes before we arrived, for poor Fleur and Clive? If only we'd arrived earlier… but, God, if we'd arrived later, surely Karl would have killed Charlotte too… Or if things had gone just a little differently, it would have been me weeping over David's body…
But how can it be, that Charli wept when Karl died? Anne brushed damp strands of hair off Charlotte's forehead. Will we ever know?
***
Kristian stood in the silent mortuary, looking down at Karl's long, lean body, pale as the slab on which it lay. And the head, serene and cold as marble; and the two plum-red stumps of the neck.
Pierre stood beside him, blood-tinted tears rimming his eyes. "God above, how could Karl let this happen?"
Kristian glanced at him with a feeling of contempt. "Only humans weep," he said. "Grief is their sickness, not ours."
"Don't you feel a damned thing for him?" said Pierre. "Are you glad? I suppose you are only angry that you did not do this yourself!"
"If you can say nothing sensible, hold your peace," said Kristian. "You cannot begin to comprehend what I feel; but that is not your fault." Pierre turned away. He thinks I patronise him, but he cannot argue, because he knows it's true.
Although Kristian showed no superficial emotion, the vast thoughts and designs of God moved deep inside him, like whales in shadow beneath the surface of the sea. He had sensed Karl's death the instant it had happened. It had been a physical jolt, an ice-burn circling his throat. The dark strands that bond all immortals to God… how should they not vibrate, when one of His children is cut down?
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