Ancient Appetites (25 page)

'And what kinds of things have you been teaching them?' Daisy asked, glancing at Nathaniel.

'Oh, all sorts of things,' Tatty replied. 'Lots of family history – particularly about the Rules of Ascension. They're really interested in those – things weren't as civilized in their day; people just bumped each other off without any rules at all. They think we're so much more sensible; they feel much safer than they used to. And they've been asking all about the members of the family, so they can get to know them, now that we're their new relatives. They love all the stories about Father – especially the bits about all the fights he won in the olden days.' She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. 'I think they're a bit bloodthirsty. They always want to hear the gory details!'

'So did I,' Nate said, nodding to himself. 'I listened to all the stories when I was young – I thought they would help me learn to fight like him.' He paused for a moment. 'I think I'd better go and have a word with him.'

'Do that,' Daisy said to him. 'Everyone seems so intent on keeping Hugo in his place, and yet his two sisters are free to spend their time diligently gathering all sorts of valuable information. You men need to pay more attention to all the women in this house.

'And while you're speaking to your good father, ask him why he's been telling his impressionable young daughter all those horrible stories.'

E
dgar would not grant Nathaniel an audience, nor would he accept any messages from him. The Duke seemed to have made his mind up that his son was a traitor, and was going to have nothing more to do with him until his punishment had been decided.

Nate spent the rest of the day with Tatiana and Daisy, who seemed to be avoiding her husband. She had still not challenged Roberto about Hennessy and was unsure if she even wanted to – and she was thankfully reluctant to discuss it in front of Tatty. Nate felt his sister was still a little young to be dealing with the harsh realities of a marriage in crisis. Better that she spend a while longer believing in the kind of life portrayed in her romance novels.

It would have helped if Daisy could have brought herself to cheer up a bit. With her pale face, glassy stare and the bags under her eyes, she looked awful. Tatty kept asking if she was ill.

The three of them walked in the gardens and went riding in the early evening; leaping their horses over gates and hedges, galloping across the countryside until the animals were lathered and panting and eager to return home.

Whenever Nate passed any of his other relatives during the day, he caught their suspicious glances – the way they avoided contact with him if they could. He decided not to take dinner in the dining room, eating in his rooms instead, with only Clancy for company. He asked his manservant to sit with him and have some tea; something he had never done before. It was a strange thing to be alienated in your own home, to be lonely with your entire family around you. The fear of what his father might do to him for his supposed treachery was beginning to set in too. The Duke was a master of cruel and unusual punishments. As they sat there together, Clancy related amusing stories of Nate's childhood, and Nate was grateful for the small comfort he got from them.

He retired early, weary from his low mood. This could not go on; he would have to talk to his father tomorrow – he would force his way into the old man's office if need be. This misunderstanding had to be sorted out. He found peace in this resolve to take action and drifted off to sleep . . .

A soft knocking on the hall door woke him and he lay there for a moment in the dark, his fears playing on his mind, wondering if the Duke had finally made up his mind to dole out his punishment. But it was more likely to be Daisy again, fretting over Roberto's night-time habits. He climbed out of bed and pulled his dressing gown on over his nightshirt. The knock came again. Out in the living room, he disarmed the booby traps and, after some hesitation, took a six-shot revolver from the drawer of the writing desk. If these were his punishers coming to pounce on him in the night, they were going to get a right bloody shock.

Opening the door, he stood there speechless for the second time in as many nights. In the dim light of the corridor, Elizabeth was waiting, dressed only in a white nightgown. Her long dark hair hung down over her shoulders and her feet were bare.

'I'm sorry for waking you, Nathaniel,' she said softly. 'But I think we need to talk, you and I.'

Nate remained frozen there for a moment, and then decided that it would be slightly less scandalous to let her into his living room than to leave her standing out in the corridor. Waving her in, he immediately went to the speaking tube to summon Clancy to escort her back to her room.

'If you are uncomfortable with my being here,' Elizabeth told him as she sat down on the sofa, 'I won't take up much of your time. Sit here next to me, so we can talk quietly'

Nate drew in a breath and closed the tube, sitting down at the far end of the sofa.

'What do you want?' he asked warily.

'I need to ask you, Nathaniel, if you are guilty of the treachery of which you are accused.'

'No,' he retorted. 'No, I'm not bloody guilty. You came here in the middle of the night to ask me that?'

Elizabeth regarded him for what seemed like the longest time and then nodded to herself.

'I believe you,' she said. 'Hugo and I both think you were wrongly accused. That is why I am here. We want to ask for your help. We are hoping that the Duke will soon recognize us as being full members of this family, and when he does, we intend to take on our share of the responsibilities. Hugo has paid great attention to what has been happening in this house since God chose to resurrect us, and he has great fears for this family'

She moved closer, and Nate became aware of her scent: clean skin and a faint perfume. The way she turned her head towards him accentuated the line of her throat and her elegant neck and shoulders. There were still the faintest lines on the skin of her face from the leathery wrinkles that had once covered it, and he had to remind himself that this woman was more than six hundred years old. He tried not to meet her eyes; they had a mesmerizing fervour to them he found disturbing, so he watched her lips instead as she spoke.

'Hugo feels that all your modern science – all these marvellous comforts with which you surround yourselves – are making the family weak and vulnerable to attack. Your fighting arts are used only for sport; your armoury is too far from your living quarters. Your windows are too large to prevent missiles from being hurled through them. You have no keep to speak of – the walls around your boundaries are low and would be impossible to defend.'

Nate gave her an incredulous look, not knowing whether to laugh or not. She did not seem to notice, continuing to list the family's faults.

'None of you wear armour when you leave the castle, and you often travel far afield without an armed escort. Your older men have grown fat, anchored to their chairs by their huge backsides. This cannot go on!'

Elizabeth moved closer still, until he could feel her breath on his skin.

'Hugo believes that this is why we were brought back from the dead,' she whispered huskily. 'To save this family from its sloth and gluttony and weakness. And save it we will! But we will need strong, moral men to help us in our struggle – men like you.' She took his hand. 'Is this all you want from your life: spending your days playing with toys, your nights dallying with chambermaids or drinking to excess? Let Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, give meaning to your life, Nathaniel.

'We are only beginning to understand how powerful this family is, but it is clear that decisions here affect the entire land; how you choose to live causes ripples across its people. Don't let sin bury your family, Nathaniel. Work with us, be a warrior for our Lord God and do His work on this earth. Join us, and we can promise you Paradise!'

And as he hesitated, shaken by what he was hearing, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth against his.

Nathaniel had Clancy start packing the next morning. He wanted to get away from this house and everything in it. Elizabeth's shameless attempt to seduce him into betraying his father had reminded him why he had fled to Africa nearly two years ago. This way of life was unbearable; being surrounded by people who were bred to believe that success was more important than loyalty, or love or even plain, common decency. He needed to find some space, some time to himself. His revenge on Gideon and his brood would just have to wait.

The fact that he was under house arrest meant nothing to him – let anyone try and stop him from leaving. He would wait out the day and make his escape in the early hours of the morning. There was the small matter of Hugo's impending betrayal to deal with, but Nate would corner his father at dinner and warn him then. He wasn't sure how great a threat Hugo could be, but he was still in no position to oust the Duke.

There were a couple of hours before dinner, and he decided to spend them going through the papers he had taken from Marcus's desk. He was not the studious type and had put it off long enough. Besides, he didn't want to have to take them with him – he would have enough baggage was it was.

The business documents threatened to put him to sleep, but he combed through the texts, searching for anything that might relate to his brother's death. But he didn't know enough about the business to determine if anything was incriminating or not. He decided to hand them on to Silas before he left.

Then there were the letters Marcus had kept with him wherever he went: the peach-coloured, scented envelopes of letters that Tatiana had sent to her big brother in America; the flowing script of Roberto's lyrical prose and the spidery scrawls of Nate's observations from Africa. Nate clutched them so hard they crumpled between his fingers and he found himself close to tears. With all the scheming, all the conspiracies, it took these simple pieces of writing to remind him how much he missed his brother.

He was stuffing the letters back into their envelopes with unnecessary roughness when his eyes fell on his most recent letter, which Marcus must have received only just before he left America for Ireland. Drawn on it in hasty lines was a map of what looked like streets. No, he corrected himself – not streets, corridors. It was like the maps they had made as children when they played games in the hidden passageways; but if it was on this envelope, it meant Marcus had been doing some exploring in the week before his death. It appeared to be a route marked in paces . . . and it started in Marcus's living room. The route ended at a point marked with the words:
'panel next to fireplace'.
Seconds later, Nate was rushing down the corridor towards the elevator.

He knew the doorway behind the bookcase in Marcus's living room and wasted no time in pushing the worn copy of Poe's
The Fall of the House of Usher
to open the door. Inside, he found a candle and matches and started along the narrow corridor, ignoring the dust and the insects and spiders that had made the dark place their home.

The route on the map took him deep into the house, through passageways he hadn't known existed. Finally, he reached a ladder extending up through the ceiling and down through the floor. Reading the map with a frown, he took hold of the ladder, gripping the candle as best he could, and started climbing upwards.

The ladder led him up to another corridor, and it was twenty paces along this passageway that the map ended. In front of him was another door, with the compulsory box of candles and matches on a shelf to one side. Blowing out his candle, Nate peered through the tiny peephole in the door. His heart sank as the room he saw beyond confirmed his fears. His hate for his family became absolute.

Nate moved away from the door and lit his candle once more, following the map's directions back to his dead brother's living room. Something rustled in the dark near his feet as he made to open the door and he kicked out at it, presuming it was a rat or mouse.

As he opened the bookcase in front of him, a flash of red darted out between his feet, shot along the skirting board and disappeared behind a chest of drawers. He heard it skitter away out of sight. Getting down on his hands and knees, he started crawling around, looking under the tables, desks and chairs. The little creature dashed out from under a divan and into Marcus's trophy room. Nate crawled in after it. The room's walls were lined with the heads and hides of other animals his brother had valiantly shot dead. There were glass cases for the smaller trophies. Nate crawled back and forth, searching under the bottoms of the cases.

A maid barged in at one point, found him on his hands and knees on the floor, and quickly excused herself, blushing violently. He sighed and continued his search.

He saw a skittering movement under the curtains and lunged after it, but the creature was as small as a mouse and moved almost as fast. It scooted under a case and he scrambled over the floor in pursuit, reaching in to grab it and nearly knocking the case over. The creature evaded him again, but this time he saw where it was going and, jumping to his feet, bounded over and slammed the living-room door shut to stop it escaping. The little creature changed direction, teasing him to come after it again.

'Enough playing,' Nate panted, grabbing a polar-bear skin off the wall. 'Your master is dead.'

He threw the heavy hide over the engimal before it could run again. It was slowed down long enough for him to pin the skin over it and force it out into his hand. It was bright red, with black spots like a ladybird, and was a similar shape. It ran on a single ball tucked into its belly.

The creature's large, single amber eye looked up at him and it gurgled some gibberish at him. Marcus had bought this little mite a few years ago and Nate had always been fond of it. He wasn't surprised that Marcus wanted him to have it. It must have gone wandering not long before Marcus left for the Mournes. Like Tatiana's songbird, it could make a wide range of sounds, but most of them were in the form of human voices. None of them made any sense, and if they were in any language at all, it was one that nobody in this world understood. That was why Marcus had named it as he did. Because it babbled on and on.

'Hello, Babylon,' he said softly.

'Hello, Nate,' the engimal replied, and Nate nearly dropped it as he recognized Marcus's voice. 'Hope you're well, old bean. Unfortunately, if you're listening to this, I must be dead.'