Key to Conflict

by Talia Gryphon

  Pavel stepped around Trocar, looking vaguely annoyed in a skimpy loincloth and…collar? Yup. There it was. A rhinestone collar to which was attached to a violet leather leash, held by the Elf. The tall blonde wolf looked like a movie extra from Gladiator via Star Trek. The loincloth that barely grazed his thighs was purple and sheer, held up by a twilight-pink Roman belt. Underneath the loincloth, fully visible through the sheer fabric, was a pale blue, shimmery thong that encased his dimensions, just barely.

  Kimber’s laugh faded and a glassy-eyed leer took its place. Pavel’s stoic face cracked as he winked and also curtsied, sending Gill into another spasm of laughter, this time joined by Luis and Trocar, who were helplessly leaning on each other, tears streaking their faces as they eyed the women’s gear.

  Gillian wiped her eyes and straightened. They’d needed a little tension break and that was it. Now back to business. Trocar figured he and Pavel could cruise the seamier side of town via the sex clubs posing as a couple. Luis was off to a party in a classier neighborhood that the proprietor of the cape store had suggested. Local high grand pooh-bahs of all flavors would be in attendance and he might be able to garner some useful information, either directly or by eavesdropping.

  Gillian and Kimber were off to the areas around the Tower of London and Highgate Cemetery. Melancholy members of both Human and Vampire races tended to haunt both after hours. If they got lucky, they might make a contact or two, and Gill had an idea.

  Everyone had their respective assignments. Trocar promised to make arrangements at the Park International Hotel near Knightsbridge for the next few days. If they found Tanis they could always check out early; if not, they’d have to adjust their strategy. They’d all meet there at dawn. All except Luis. He’d find a place to rest in one of the many parks around the city. Vampires didn’t need coffins to sleep if earth itself was available. Gill didn’t like one of them being separated from the rest, but they didn’t want to attract attention with asking for a coffin-safe room at the hotel.

  Parting company, Gillian and Kimber hailed a cab and traveled to the Tower first. An imposing structure, the oldest part of which, the White Tower, built in 1078, replaced a wooden fortress built by William the Conqueror. The Tower had a dark and bloody history that made Gillian hesitant to step up to the main gates. Kimber noticed her reluctance. “What’s up, boss?”

  Gillian’s eyes remained fixed on the imposing structure. “I’m an empath, remember?” Even from twenty yards away, she could feel it. Fear. Death. Age. Anguish. The buildings within were old and did not contain their secrets or their shame well.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kimber said, still looking at her. “Well, get your empathic ass in there so we can find some answers.”

  Jolted out of her thoughts by her former lieutenant’s bluntness, Gill took a fortifying breath and walked forward. It was nine thirty PM, almost time for the Ceremony of the Keys, carried out at ten PM every night without fail for seven hundred years. She had managed to get tickets at the last minute by tipping a vendor rather handsomely.

  Just walking through the main gate was impressive. Gill shielded instinctively. Good to know those defense mechanisms were still there when she needed them. She knew where she was and what she might encounter and her defenses had automatically snapped on. Sure enough, there were Ghosts aplenty here. The highest activity she could sense came from one area. Approaching one of the warders, the guards in the beefeater uniforms who lived and worked at the tower, Gillian inquired as to what lay in that area.

  “That is where the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula is, miss. And beyond that is seven Tower Green.” He responded in a lovely upper-class accent, pointing that way.

  “What are those places?” Gill asked.

  “The chapel is right next to the former place of the scaffold, where most of the prisoners who were executed are buried, miss. Seven Tower Green is the residence King Henry the Eighth built for Queen Anne Boleyn when they were first betrothed.”

  “Thank you,” Gillian whispered, distracted.

  She fixated on the direction he had pointed and moved a little to the side, hoping to be lost in the gathering crowd. Kimber followed, eyes and ears on full alert. Soon, they managed to slip into the shadows, and ran for the Chapel.

  “Tell me again, Gillian, why are we going here?” Kimber wasn’t nervous, she just wasn’t overly fond of Ghosts.

  Gill stopped in front of a small chapel with a brass plaque. “Because Ghosts know a lot more than people give them credit for. Now let me see if I can entice anyone to come talk to us.”

  “Oh yay!” Kimber said cheerfully, turning to watch the direction where they’d come from while Gillian pulled several items out of her backpack.

  Putting a little pile of crystals on the copper dish from her pack and dousing them with willow oil, Gill flipped some flash paper on it and lit it. There was a brilliant orange-white flare as the paper lit and ignited the oil and incense. A handful of basil was spread in a circle around herself and Kimber. Then, opening herself to the feelings of the place, Gillian sent out a soundless call. She wasn’t specific; she didn’t have a particular Ghost in mind; there were so many that used this place for a haunt.

  Age, the smell of old stones, ancient brickwork, sweat, steel, the thick straw…blood…it all seeped into her nose and senses. A chill crept over both of them. Kimber’s teeth chattered and she backed up closer to Gillian. They could hear the voices of the warders as they carried out the Ceremony of the Keys, but the two of them were utterly alone amid the darkened buildings. Almost.

  Opening her eyes, Gillian could see the swirling whorls of ectoplasm dancing through the air. There was a lot of them. Not good. Maybe her call had been a little too effective. Ghosts couldn’t directly hurt a living person, but they could literally scare them to death or make them run into walls or off a cliff if one was handy. These Ghosts had a lot of reason to be pissed off. Anger was one of the prevalent emotions Gillian was picking up. Annoyance was another.

  “Why do you call us?”

  A hollow, aristocratic and female voice asked, directly behind her. Gillian turned slowly. Showing fear at this point was redundant. The inhabitants already knew she and Kimber were scared from the amount of fear being projected at them. She had to look up a little. The form that shimmered into solidity was one of an older woman dressed in clothing from the fifteen hundreds. Nobility by the looks of her: elegant, slender, refined, and with a challenging look in her hollow eyes.

  “I call you for wisdom and advice, Lady.” Gillian was careful to keep her voice respectful.

  One on one with a Ghost like Dante she could defend herself pretty well, but there were too many of them here and shadowy shapes were forming all around them. The Ghost cocked her head, barely showing a faint line diagonally across but not transecting the neck and traveling up the sharp, lined jaw. Gill looked closer and saw a number of slashes in the woman’s clothing and on the visible parts of her skin.

  Pale shadow lines and flaws on the luminescent visage as if the woman had been viciously attacked by scores of sharp instruments. The scent of old death was all around them. Memory stirred as Gill’s British-history-recall brain cells went on overdrive to determine who this Ghost was that she was about to speak to. Something clicked and she knew.

  “Countess Margaret Pole?”

  The Ghost drew herself up proudly. “That was my name in life, yes.”

  “Countess, I am Gillian Key, a psychologist for those of your kind and I am seeking information about the Vampire Lord Dracula.” Gillian didn’t like using Dracula’s name directly, but it would certainly expedite the situation if she cut to the chase.

  The Ghost’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Why do you seek the knowledge from a Ghost and not a Vampire?”

  Gill extended her hands, palm up, in a helpless gesture, “While I can determine age or power in a Vampire, I don’t have the knowledge or the skill to always correctly determine an evil Vampire or a good one, Lady.” That was ho
nest. Maybe the Ghost would appreciate honesty for a change.

  Countess Margaret Pole had been a noble, loyal to king and country. Her only crime had been to raise a son, Reginald, who wrote treason against King Henry the Eighth. Reginald, being a chickenshit as well as deemed a traitor, left England. Since Henry couldn’t locate the son to bring to justice, he focused his attention on the old woman.

  The seventy-year-old countess was imprisoned in the Tower for two years with no arrest or trial. One morning, her jailers arrived to announce that she was to be beheaded within the hour. They led her to the scaffold, where she refused to kneel in the thick straw and place her neck upon the block, knowing she was innocent.

  Enraged, the novice executioner went after her, swinging his axe. Lady Margaret ran screaming as he pursued her, literally hacking the old woman to death as she ran, right in front of the horrified guards. Her death was violent, messy murder, pure and simple. Lady Margaret Pole was an angry Ghost and had little reason to feel the need to help the living.

  Her eyes remained narrowed as she regarded the smaller blonde before her. “Many do not have the skill or knowledge to determine innocence or guilt, let alone evil or good, Human.”

  She paced around Gillian, who turned with her, never letting her out of her sight. The Ghost continued, “Why should I answer you? It is nothing to me.”

  “Margaret, stop being haughty and answer the young lady.” Gillian spun, hand going to her Walther at the sound of a resonant male voice that came from her right. A man was there, dressed in sixteenth-century clothing. He had been handsome in life, tall and slender. Unlike Margaret, there was a distinct line across his neck. Also unlike Margaret, he bowed formally to Gillian, who was backed up against Kimber, who also had her hand on a gun.

  “Sir Walter Raleigh, m’lady,” the Ghost intoned.

  Gillian breathed a sigh of relief and returned his bow. Though executed unjustly as well, Raleigh had been a gentleman in life, and apparently remained a gentleman in death—but she wasn’t after an ally, just information.

  “Thank you, Sir Walter. I appreciate your kindness.”

  Gillian was careful not to let either formed Ghost out of her sight. Kimber was also doing her best to watch the swirling, partially formed ectoplasm to see who else might pop in.

  “Dracula does not frequent here, ma’am.” Raleigh’s voice had a slight nasal quality that grated on Gill’s nerves. “However, the Ghosts of the Tower have been asked to join with him to help establish Paramortal rule.” Oops. That idea of hers about him still being a gentleman went right out the window. Raleigh’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. His look wasn’t friendly. “His request is being considered.”

  Oh, how festive, Gill thought, but she didn’t interrupt.

  “We have little reason to love mortals, you see.” This was from Lady Margaret. “Mortals did little for us when we lived and have done nothing for us as noncorporeal beings.”

  The Ghosts were circling now, forming a tighter area around the two women. Gill felt Kimber’s back tighten up—hell, they were both nearly paralyzed with fear.

  This was getting out of hand. The ectoplasm was whirling faster and more figures were forming. Gillian knew, as did Kimber, that the Ghosts couldn’t hurt them directly, but they could make sharp objects fall down on the women if they tried to get away. Here at the Tower there were way too many sharp objects on display. Icy hands were reaching out and touching the women with fleeting brushes. It was unnerving.

  “We meant no offense to any of you,” Gill said between chattering teeth.

  “None taken,” Raleigh replied, looming closer.

  “Captain, let’s leave.” Kimber was done with this.

  Gillian was too. She’d hoped to gain some useful information, but all they’d done was piss off the spirits. Slowly, back to back, they moved toward the front entrance of the Tower. Not surprising, the Ghosts followed, crowding closer.

  “My apologies for whatever was done to you in life, but I had nothing to do with it,” Gillian ground out, still moving slowly but surely toward light and people.

  “All the living and the mortal are answerable to how our brethren are treated…m’lady.” Raleigh’s voice was colder and more nasal.

  The collective Ghost fear that was being generated overcame the two former Marines. Gillian grabbed the salt and threw it at them, shouting an incantation of binding. There was no way in hell it would hold that many, but it would break their ranks for a moment. The Ghosts swooshed back, breaking ranks just enough for the two women to bolt through, then surged forward, shrieking, bleeding, carrying body parts and heads. Gill and Kimber ran flat out, Ghosts following, into the crowd of people witnessing the Ceremony of the Keys.

  One look at the ectoplasmic horror approaching them and the crowd panicked. The resulting stampede carried Gillian and Kimber outside the Tower. White, horrible faces stared and screamed after them but they were free of the direct fear.

  “Boss, remind me never to do that with you again,” Kimber gasped.

  She wasn’t happy. Gill didn’t blame her. She nodded, waiting for her heart to stop trying to come out of her chest and for her breathing to slow down. This was bad. The Tower Ghosts were powerful, old and very, very angry. If they’d thrown their alliance behind Dracula, things were about to get interesting. Though bound by the geography of their haunt, the Ghosts still could exercise influence on any Paramortal who happened through the gates. Since Gillian had just tipped her hand, someone was bound to find out there were mortals asking about Dracula.

  “When you’re writing your memoirs, is there a part where you say, ‘And then we went to Highgate Cemetery?’” Kimber wanted to know. There was some of the spark back in her eyes.

  “Yes.” Gillian took a moment to collect herself and get her bearings.

  They were outside the Tower, so they needed to go…northeast. It took a few minutes to hail a cab from the aftermath of mass desertion due to the tourists versus Ghosts incident. Highgate was ten kilometers away. They could have jogged it easily but Gillian didn’t want to arrive in another potentially hazardous place all sweaty and out of breath. There was plenty of time for being exhausted later.

  The cab pulled down a one-way street and stopped before a formidable carved stone gate. “’Ere ya go.”

  The cabbie’s accent was of the lower class but he’d been friendly and polite. They got out, Gill paid him and they went through the dark entrance.

  “This is gonna suck too.” Kimber muttered. She showed no pretense of being quiet but reached into her Michelin Man purse and pulled out her crossbow, clicking a bolt into place.

  At Gillian’s look, she said, “Do not even tell me to put it up. I’ve had enough bullshit for one night.”

  After a moment of thought, Gillian drew the Walther and cocked it, reflexively moving into a predatory stance as they moved into the darkness of Highgate.

  The cemetery itself was legendary. The oldest section, the west side, had been built in 1839; the east followed in 1854. Both famous and infamous, common and noble lay here in their eternal sleep. Vampires and a variety of Reborn lived and skulked here. One of the tombs had even been the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s vision of Dracula’s resting place. The fictional Dracula, that is. The real Prince Dracula wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, all broken down and overgrown. Gillian smirked at her humor as she continued down the cracked and crumbling footpath into the foreboding darkness.

  If their nerves hadn’t been on edge, she probably wouldn’t have reacted as strongly; at least that was what she’d tell herself later. The cemetery was full of beings both living and dead. A shriek coming from her right raised Gill’s hackles. There were loud voices and the sound of a blow being struck. Not bothering to look back at Kimber, whom she knew would follow, Gillian tore across the landscape, jumping over fallen and upright tombstones, splashing through standing water, narrowly avoiding breaking her ankle with the uneven terrain.

  They were m
aking a hell of a lot of noise but she didn’t care. That scream had been Human and female. Bursting through a line of shrubs, Gill saw the Human girl backed up against a tree. She looked terrified and probably would have bolted at the sight of two people bursting from the undergrowth, except for the male Vampire who held her by the throat, pinning her against the large tree. The Vampire’s hand glowed eerily in the moonlight—he was agitated but held her throat loosely to torment her.

  Gillian didn’t stop for small talk; her empathy told her that this was a young Vampire, maybe not newly dead but young and cocky. Gathering herself, she jumped and power-kicked him, knocking him away from the woman. It didn’t knock him down; Vamps had reflexes like Elves. He spun, hissing, to glare at the business end of Kimber’s crossbow, which he could see held wooden-shaft bolts, and the short blonde who had her gun pointed at his head.

  The black robes of a Satanist adorned the Vampire, embroidered in red with a stylized image of the Horned God and various runes, which Gillian could tell at a glance made no sense; they were random and for decorative purposes only. He apparently was too stupid to know that the Horned God was pagan, a god of fertility, and the only blood that interested him was menstrual, from his female followers.

  Lucifer, on the other hand, who the Satanists believed they worshipped, was a fallen angel—his countenance would be too beautiful and too terrible to be embroidered on a cheap robe, no matter how evil he was. Plus, as she’d learned while studying comparative religion in college, gods, goddesses and angels rarely condescended to involve themselves in petty Earthly matters.

  Gillian had been born Jewish and raised in the Unitarian Universalist Church; she was not religious, but she was spiritual. She’d toyed with some Kabbalistic magic and theory during her youth and knew worshipping anything, good or evil, lent power to the being through the thoughts and intentions of the worshipper. Pagan, wiccan, however someone wanted to term her, Gill used magic occasionally, but it was herb or green magic, which required a respect and love of nature and living things. She respected and accepted a higher power, but had no particular creed, followed no dogma, so the symbols on the Vampire’s cloak and apparent religion held no threat or fear for her.