The Earl's Daughter (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  Michael put a hand in his coat pocket and grabbed the card that Pascal had given him. A secret library? He turned his face to the sky and closed his eyes as he held the card. He didn’t pray anymore. Not that he’d done it often, even as a priest. But meditation came to him easily. In an instant he could be in deep trance and his consciousness would always reveal his next step. Now he asked the question. Should I visit this Henri tonight? A wave of adrenalin swept through him and Michael opened his eyes, feeling giddy like he’d just stepped off a roller coaster. He put the card in his pocket, and took a steadying breath. He’d call Henri later, but first he wanted to visit Emma’s apartment again.

  Michael had been searching for an hour, and he didn’t like it one bit – going through Emma’s personal things, without her permission. He never touched personal property without his client’s knowledge. But he didn’t find it anyway – the mail box key.

  He stood by the desk and sighed. His eyes scanned the bookshelves and fell on the framed photograph of Emma and her sister. His fingers tingled and Michael stepped closer.

  It had been moved.

  The photo frame sat at a different angle. The last time he stood in this spot the photo had faced the door. Now it faced the window. His fingers buzzed and pins and needles danced up his arms. He picked up the frame and closed his eyes. His search only brought vague images of a woman crying, perhaps Susan, and something lurking, dark and shadowy. The silver frame grew hot in his hand, he quickly returned it and spied a gap in the shelf. A book was missing. He touched the books either side of the space and a spark flew through his fingers. A book had been taken.

  He stepped back, craning his neck to examine all of the texts on the shelves. There were five shelves about three meters wide, packed full of books, along with ancient-looking adornments and the odd photo frame. Some of the books related to Emma’s work. He picked up one called Howard Carter, and the secret tomb of Tutankhamun, and flicked through the pages, before returning it to its place. The rest were mostly novels; classics from English literature.

  ‘Novels line the wall, stories from another era. Jane Austen and the Brontes, in particular.’

  The words from Nathaniel’s blog entry returned to Michael as he studied her collection. Nathaniel was right. Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre stood side by side.

  ‘One book on her shelf catches my eye. Perhaps she should have studied it a little more than the others. I remember Stoker well; he knew what the darkness could wreak.’

  Michael took a sharp breath and scanned more quickly. Stoker. Where is it? That most famous fable that started them all.

  He forced his eyes to look more logically, starting again from the top left, the way one might read a book, registering every title there. Not one of them Dracula. It was missing.

  Michael dialled the number as he walked. It rang several times before he finally heard the click of an answer.

  “Allo.” The voice was gruff, and sleepy.

  Michael glanced at his watch. It was two thirty in the afternoon. “Monsieur Chevalier?”

  “Oui.”

  “Je m’appelle Michael D’Angelo. Excusez-moi, mais parlez-vous Anglais?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael took a sharp breath. “I’ve been told to call you about a book.”

  “Who told you?” Henri had a deep voice, and spoke slowly as though he weighed the value of each word.

  “Pascal.”

  A pause.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Come tonight at nine. Here’s the address.”

  Michael put the phone back into his pocket and looked around. He had ambled along as he spoke with Henri, not thinking where he was going.

  He was standing outside a bookshop. An old battered sign read ‘New and used books in English’. The sign was written both in French and English. Michael opened the door and a little bell announced his entrance.

  Warmth greeted him inside, and the subtle scent of second-hand books. It reminded him of the seminary. Probably because he had spent most of his training as a priest in the library, reading all those secret gospels that Father Corelli had hidden away.

  “Can I help you?”

  Michael turned to see a middle-aged man reading a book behind the counter. “You’re English.”

  The man smiled. “Yes. Hardly a surprise. You wouldn’t find a Frenchman selling English books in the middle of Paris.” He chuckled.

  “No, I suppose you’re right,” Michael agreed.

  “I’m Arthur, from Kent.” Arthur closed his book and took his reading glasses off.

  “Michael.”

  “Looking for anything in particular?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes I am.” Michael glanced around the shop. Piles of books sprung up everywhere. Shelves bulged all the way to the high ceiling. He wondered how Arthur reached them.

  “Well, we probably have it here somewhere. What’s the title?”

  Michael exhaled a slow breath. “Dracula.”

  Chapter 8

  Excerpt from ‘Dracula’ Chapter 1 – Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  5 May. The Castle.--The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed.

  I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes.

  There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.

  I dined on what they called “robber steak”--bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks, and roasted over the fire, in simple style of the London cat’s meat!

  The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable.

  I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

  When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking to the landlady.

  They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.

  I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”--Satan, “Pokol”--hell, “stregoica”--witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”--both mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem.,I must ask the Count about these superstitions.)

  When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me.

  With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what they meant. He would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye.

  This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched.

  I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard.

  Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the boxseat,--”gotza” they call them--cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey…

  Being an ex-priest-turned-paranormal investigator wasn’t the most lucrative position, and Michael had time to kill before his meeting with Henri, so he navigated the metro system rather than taking a taxi to Montmarte. It gave him time to read Dracula, which he was en
joying and he wondered why he’d never picked it up before.

  The train beat its way to Lamarck Station, a good twenty-minute ride. Michael opened Dracula to the page he had marked and took out his tablet. He noted some terms – ‘Ordog’, ‘Pokol, ‘stregoica’. He’d heard of the first two of course. He’d made a career out of Satan and Hell. But ‘stregoica’ was new to him, as was ‘vlkoslak’ and his fingers tingled as he typed the strange words.

  The train went further underground and the lights blinked out, casting the entire cabin in darkness. Michael looked up and saw his reflection in the window. The glow from the tablet revealed a silhouette of his face and glasses. Then the lights flickered on.

  A thought came to mind and Michael put the tablet down and took up the book again, quickly scanning the second chapter. He found what he was looking for. A short passage:

  I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.

  Michael frowned. Dracula was fiction, but this passage was so similar to Anais’s recollection of the night she saw Nathaniel, and his lack of a reflection. He frowned, trying to think if it were possible. If vampires even existed how could they be corporeal and yet have no reflection? Demons had no reflection, that was a well-established fact and one that he had seen for himself on a number of occasions. He sometimes used mirrors as a way of assessing other factors. Like darkness in a person possessed. A victim’s reflection was always darker than they were in the flesh.

  The train sped above ground now and the street lights of Paris grew visible through the window. Michael squinted as he looked out at the dim night. Perhaps he had come across a theory at last. What if Emma had indeed been possessed and this was all the demon’s work? In all likelihood she was still under its control. But what did it want with her? And how was it that Anais had also seen Nathaniel? Few demons had that kind of power. Unless … He let the thought drift away. Demons didn’t frighten Michael. But He did.

  Ten minutes later Michael strode along Rue Caulaincourt, his hand gripping a paper shopping bag that he had brought with him. More old buildings lined the road. This was yet another part of ancient Paris. The lights of Sacre Coeur shimmered nearby. He turned a corner and apartment buildings now dominated. The warm glow of lounges and dining rooms highlighted quaint gardens brimming with red flowering geraniums. Michael caught a good glimpse of a cosy living room – a rosy fire in the hearth. Sitting down on a late autumn night such as this with a book and a glass of port, perhaps reading a De Quincy, suddenly seemed very inviting. But Michael pulled his coat tighter and squinted at the numbers on doors as he walked.

  Finally, he came to ninety-three. He looked down at the basement level, a black iron stairwell led to a door, and soft light filtered through a small window. Michael opened the creaky gate and descended.

  He took a breath and knocked. A moment later, the door opened and a short man in a tartan dressing gown with a dark beard and a large bulbous nose answered. His small eyes narrowed on Michael.

  “D’Angelo?”

  Michael nodded and held out his hand. “Oui, and you are Henri Chevalier?”

  Henri eyed the hand before casting a glare over Michael. Then he sniffed and turned. “Entres,” he said in his gruff voice, and he lumbered through the room, favouring his right side. “This way.”

  Michael put his outstretched hand in his pocket and stepped into the room. It was barely warmer than outside. Everywhere he looked there were books. Not dissimilar to the bookshop he had visited that afternoon, but a little more care was taken here. Books were stacked more neatly, and some of them sat housed in glass cabinets. He spotted a medieval Bible – the gold leaf interior open underneath a glass showcase. Priceless.

  He followed Henri through a hallway, also lined with shelves of books, and then another room until they came to a small kitchen.

  “Sit,” Henri said.

  Michael obeyed, pulling out a small wooden chair from the kitchen table. He reached into the paper bag, his hand rested on Dracula and he put it on the table before grabbing the bottle of whisky.

  Henri picked up the book, an eyebrow arched, appraising it with his narrow eyes before returning it to the table. His expression had changed somewhat. He now seemed less disdainful and more – interested, perhaps. Michael wasn’t sure. Pascal had told him that Henri had a short fuse. Another man impatient in the quest for knowledge.

  Michael put the bottle of whisky on the table and this seemed like a piece of rare magic. Henri’s mouth spread into a wide smile that revealed yellow teeth. “Talisker.”

  Michael smiled, nervously. “Pascal told me you like whisky.”

  Henri nodded as he inspected the bottle. He took the lid off and sniffed, and closed his eyes, looking as euphoric as a cherub in a renaissance painting.

  “Hah!” he finally announced, and plonked the bottle on the small table. He turned and retrieved two glasses from a nearby cupboard then poured a generous amount into each.

  “I thought the French preferred brandy,” Michael said testily.

  Henri swilled the glass before tasting. His whole body seemed to shake. “Brandy, not as a warm as this!” He lifted the glass and drank the entire contents down, then poured himself another. “This place is like winter.” His accent was heavy. “This keeps me warm.” He had another swill, but more a sip than a gulp.

  Michael wondered what to say next. He needed to ask his questions and get whatever information he could before this strange Norman fell under the table – drunk. He cleared his throat. “So this book—”

  Henri raised a hand. “Do not rush, Monsieur.” He dug into the top pocket of his tartan dressing gown and pulled out a thin cigar. “Do you know how long whisky as fine as this takes before it is ready?” He lit his cigar and puffed a bulbous cloud to the side.

  Michael shook his head, wondering why the French all seemed to smoke. “Seven years?”

  Henri took another sip and closed his eyes. Every drop of it seemed to take him to some secret heaven. “At the very least, Monsieur. But this one, it took fifteen. Fifteen years – a lifecycle by the ancients. Once a boy turned fifteen he was a man and could father a child. At thirty, he would soon be a grandfather. At forty-five he could be dead.” Henri’s black eyes stared true as he puffed out another stream of cigar smoke. “Three life cycles. The sacred three.” He nodded to the Talisker. “It is a sacred elixir you bring me, Monsieur.”

  Michael nodded, trying to comprehend the significance of that pearl of history, but failing, his mind distracted by the fact that he was soon to turn forty-five himself, and so had entered the third cycle. Would it mean his end? He couldn’t help a shiver that jerked him involuntarily and he took another sip of the whisky, welcoming the fire that flared within.

  Henri eyed him still and Michael tried not to squirm.

  “I know what you seek.” The Norman’s eyes glistened in the small glow of the light bulb that hung over the table. “But do you?”

  Michael swallowed. “No, not exactly, but Pascal suggested this.” He put the card on the table and pointed to the words, Foliss Abesse.

  Henri’s eyes studied the card then shifted to Dracula, still sitting next to the Talisker bottle. “Oui, it might help,” he said, exhaling another cloud. “But one does not give away artefacts of such value. There must be exchange. Balance. One
goes out, another comes in.”

  Michael frowned. “I can pay.”

  “Pah! No one can pay for the Foliss Abesse, Monsieur, even a copy such as mine. Certainly not a priest.”

  Michael squirmed. And how did Henri know about that?

  “No. It is not the dirty cash I want. This book can only be paid for with another.”

  “I am no longer in the priesthood, Monsieur. I have no access to any books.”

  Henri’s eyes narrowed. “But you have contacts still, non? In the Athenaeum?”

  So the Norman knows about that, too. The Athenaeum library in Rome had a vast collection of all religious books, both sanctioned and otherwise, and Michael had spent a good deal of time studying them. He needed to make contact with Patrick, but he couldn’t steal a book, could he?

  Henri stubbed out his cigar and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He put it on the table and slid it across to Michael.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  “Open it.”

  It was a photocopy of text, all Latin. The script centuries old, under a heading in elaborate letters: Sanguisugae.

  Michael looked up.

  Henri bowed his head. “You understand?”

  “Sanguisugae. It means ‘vampire’.”

  Henri nodded.

  “What is this?” Michael asked, pointing at the photocopy.

  Henri’s mouth twitched as he poured them more whisky. “It is a page, from the book called Foliss Abesse.”

  Michael squinted. “Foliss abesse – absent leaves?”

  “Oui. It is the transcriptions from an even older book whose lost pages were almost destroyed near the end of the seventeenth century. This book was the work of one Benedictine monk. It tells the secrets of demons, witch’s spells and vampires. The monk had been charged with a serious offense, in which he broke his vows. Perhaps similar to your own situation, Monsieur.”