Broom with a View (5 page)

The catacombs seemed impossibly complex, but Hippolyta knew her way even without the aid of a seeking spell. At last, the passage ended before a
n ornately carved stone doorway.

The ironwork door seemed immovable, but Hippolyta knew her business. To one side of the doorway was a stone angel, sagging piteously against the masonry. Hippolyta’s searching fingers found two little holes in the angel’s stone neck and pressed inward
s. Its hand moved, and with a dull, metal click, the door swung open. Hippolyta flashed a smug yet excited look in her companion’s direction. “Welcome to your first true adventure,” she said.

* * * * * * * * * *

The faces were the worst, Vera thought. As the two Witches emerged into a wide tunnel, like an underground avenue, and walked among the subterranean dwellers, pale faces appeared from within balaclavas or from under veiled hats or from behind dark curtains of hair. They were ghastly, almost luminous in their pallor, but even worse, their eyes were pits of darkness that would catch the lamplight in the most alarming ways, unearthly black stars twinkling in the darkness.

“My Goddess,” whispered Vera, squeezing her companion’s hand for reassurance.

The underground street in which Vera and Hippolyta found themselves seemed to be constantly holding its breath. All voices whispered. All footfalls were soft. The loudest noise was the trickle of a canal that twisted its way through Night Town, transporting flat little barges carrying barrels and goods through the tunnels. The street was lined with market stalls, but unlike markets in the world above, there was no need for awnings to protect merchandise from sun damage or rain. No wind would blow goods away, so walls could be made of the finest silks. Only light, or the lack of it, was a problem, and it was addressed in the barest possible way with minimally placed candles or shaded candelabras. Vera felt her eyes almost popping out of their sockets in an effort to penetrate the gloom.

Hippolyta didn’t seem to mind. She flitted lightly from one stall to the next, caressing silks Vera could barely see and ogling jewelry encrusted with large stones that glittered in the dark.

“The best fashion stalls are this way,” Hippolyta said excitedly as she pulled Vera along the street. “Vampires are the only people with any real understanding of fashion.”

It was true
; the fashions were quite breathtaking, so long as you liked black. Being a Witch, Vera understood that black need not be only for funerals and other ceremonial occasions, but its overwhelming prevalence here took her aback. Black velvet gowns with the deepest ruby red trim, black scarves, sable mufflers, even black linens were on display, as well as black starched collars and even undergarments.

Hippolyta ran her fingers over a fur-lined overcoat with admiration while Vera stood back keeping watch with darting eyes. The proprietor stepped
forwards to attend his new customers. He was a round, moon-faced creature with no hair but immense eyebrows that jutted out like little devil horns.

“Ah, Miss Hopkins
.” His voice was soft and eager. “Your eye for striking elegance never falters.”

The little man turned his owlish gaze
towards Vera, eyes sparkling with barely shrouded excitement. Even more than the other beings lurking around the market, this creature’s pale countenance unnerved Miss Tartlette, and the circles under his eyes looked like smears of charcoal. He came towards her, leaning forwards and bobbing like a little round bird, smiling what Vera felt was the smile of a hungry cat who has just spotted an exhausted mouse.

“And for Madam?” he asked
. “Can I interest you in some more metropolitan fashions?”

It was all too much for Vera. She staggered back, flinging her arms out to shield herself, trying to remember any kind of spell to repel a Vampire attack but finding her mind entirely blank.

“Don’t you come near me, you fiend!” she screamed. Her voice echoed through the underground halls, deafeningly loud in the hush. Everyone around them froze suddenly, turning to see the source of the commotion. To her absolute horror, Vera found herself the center of attention.

The proprietor hesitated, his smile stiffening. He straightened, adjusted his sleeves, and coughing a bit said, “Perhaps when you’ve had a chance to shop around a bit more.” He discreetly turned away.

Hippolyta pulled her friend from the stall. “Vera,” she hissed. “What possibly possessed you to cause such a scene?”

“I’m so sorry,” began the Witch, her voice quavering. “But when that Vampire came
towards me...” She couldn’t go on. Perhaps she was simply too old to start a life of adventure.

“Vampire?” Hippolyta
laughed. “Him? Don’t be ridiculous, Vera.”

“But I thought...” Vera began.

“My dear creature.” Miss Hopkins did little to hide her amusement. “We haven’t even seen any Vampires yet.”

Vera stopped and stared at her friend, entirely nonplussed. “These people? With their soulless eyes and lifeless pallor. They aren’t vampires?”

Hippolyta laughed a little too brightly. “I made the same mistake when I first came here. No, they’re all quite Mortal.”

“Mortals?” Vera felt her stomach lurch. Even though she dreaded the answer, she still felt compelled to ask, “Then what are they doing down here?”

Chapter 4:
Yes, I Know It Well.

Vera had made Violet promise not to leave the Pensione Belladonna under any circumstances while she herself was out gallivanting around the city. But, Violet rationalized, her aunt really couldn’t expect her to stay cooped up all day; she had to take some air. Besides, the girl didn’t intend to go very far. She just wanted to mail her letter and buy a few postcards and, since it was on the way, possibly take in the Baphomet Cathedral. She could see its large dome dominating the landscape, proving that it was only a few blocks away. How dangerous could it be to traverse a mere few blocks in the middle of broad daylight? Even in a city where half the occupants were no longer amongst the living. Wasn’t she in X because it was safer than England?

To Violet’s eyes, everyone looked perfectly normal. Yes, there were a few more heavy cloaks and wider-brimmed hats than one usually saw at home, but fashions did alter from country to country, so that was no reason to be alarmed. Adjusting her own hat to a more determined angle, the girl trotted up the worn marble steps to the ancient cathedral.

As the shadow created by the Baphomet Cathedral loomed over her, Violet tried to recall the history of the structure. On their train ride over, she’d attempted to commit the facts listed in her Baedeker to memory. The building was, after all, supposed to be the center of Witchcrafting in all of Europe. It was also known for its magnificent frescoes and carved reliefs depicting the histories and fables of the Craft. Everyone knew the story of the celebrated Italian artist, Michelangelo, who was brought to X in secret and made to
lie on his back for weeks, supported by four levitating broomsticks, while he painted the famous Witches at Valmar on the cathedral’s ceiling before being returned to his home with no memory of his adventure.

Inside, the air was cool and dry, and even Violet’s light tread echoed to the top of the dome. The cathedral buzzed with the sound of hundreds of Crafters from all over Europe, swarming like wasps, gazing
upwards, whispering loudly, and bumping into one another repeatedly as they tried to take in the beautiful works of famous artists. Unbeknownst to most visitors, they were almost all at the cathedral with the same intent—to fully absorb each piece of art so that when they returned home from their travels, and for the rest of their lives, if someone should ask, “Oh, do you know so-and-such painting at the Baphomet Cathedral?” they could reply with a worldly smile, “Yes, I know it well.”

One voice in the edifice stood out among the rest, droning on at a steady pace, heedless of any competitive sounds. It carried an air of fussy authority, as though it were the last word on the cathedral and every work of art in it. Scanning the crowd, Violet recognized old Professor Yog, the official Warlock Representative of Great Britain in X. White wisps of hair made a sparse halo around the pale dome of his skull, and sunken eyes belied a fine set of lungs that could easily reach every ear within the vast space. The girl didn’t know him personally, of course, but had seen his photograph on many an occasion. The professor was leading a group of elderly English Crafters through the cathedral, pointing out frescoes of interest and giving historical information.

Violet had been thoroughly warned that numerous self-proclaimed tour guides prowled the cathedral in hopes of earning a few ingots by expounding their dubious information about the historical frescoes. Still, the girl was half tempted to hire one; she had, after all, left her Baedeker in her room. But since Professor Yog’s voice eclipsed all others, there was no real need to hire a competing guide. The Professor was not some tout trying to score a few shekels. He lectured under the determined conviction that the Crafter community at large would benefit from his knowledge. His clear drone had the proprietorial air of a proud owner rather than simply a student of history.

“If you will examine the large fresco to the left of the El Greco
…” the professor gestured with the long staff he always used as a cane to help him along the cobblestones, “…you will see one of the works of
Pedro Berruguete depicting the trial of an accused Witch during the Papal Inquisition.” Violet followed the group’s gaze towards a fresco depicting a lone, young Witch, half-denuded and bound with chains but standing brave and proud before a gathering of gaunt, ghoulish priests gazing at her lasciviously.

“The one next to it is the accused Witch having been convicted and her subsequent punishment of being burned at the stake.” Here, the professor directed his stick
towards an expressive painting of the same Witch, her face twisted in agony as she was engulfed in flames while the ghastly inquisitors looked on with grim delight.

“I shall never understand why Witches took all those inquisitions so personally,”
 came a cheerful voice from the outer edge of the crowd that had gathered. “I mean, it’s not like Crafters were the only group that was persecuted.” Violet poked her head around to see the Count Du Monde standing at the back of the crowd, wearing his merry smile. “What about the Cathars?” the old man continued with a twinkle in his eye. “Those poor blighters were slaughtered en masse, but you don’t hear them complaining about it.”

Professor Yog cleared his throat in irritation
. A sunbeam streaming through a stained glass window caught the large crimson orb embedded in the tip of his staff, causing it to glint like an angry red eye.

“Moving along, you’ll want to examine the next fresco, expertly done by Ambrogio Lornzetti, depicting the effects of the Black Death, which many believe to be the work of the Goddesses to punish Europe for the Inquisitions. Shortly after this masterpiece was completed, Lornzetti himself succumbed to the plague.”

“Actually, it was the Crafters themselves who concocted the plague. And who can blame them?” Du Monde gave his jovial chuckle, completely at ease as he supplemented the Professor’s commentary with his own. “A nasty inquisition or two kills off a few hundred Witches, all the more reason to visit unspeakable suffering and death on a third of the European population.”

Professor Yog banged his staff on the floor so hard that it sounded like a gunshot reverberating throughout the cathedral for several seconds. “Excuse me,” he said dryly. “I find that too many competing voices creates an unpleasant discord. Will those in my group please follow me?”

The Crafters all shuffled forwards, shooting indignant looks in Count Du Monde’s direction. Soon it was just the Count and Violet standing by themselves. The girl couldn’t help but notice that the old Vampire looked a little deflated. “This is the great tragedy of our world,” the old man sighed. “We have allowed lies and self-righteous justifications to perpetuate a meaningless conflict.”

Violet looked around but already knew that
 it was she whom he was addressing. Not wanting to be rude, she reluctantly wandered over. “And both sides are guilty, I’m afraid,” the Count continued. “I do not absolve Vampires from this charge. I, of all people, should accept responsibility where it is due.”

The Vampire gestured across the wide marble floor
towards a solitary figure in a long black cloak, pacing slowly. He alone among crowds cast his eyes downward, ignoring the soaring majesty of the cathedral. “Take a look at my son, Sebastian.”

A would-be tour
guide approached the young vampire and began to babble in a language Violet didn’t recognize. The vampire slowly turned his eyes towards this intruder and gazed fixedly at him, neither threateningly nor with annoyance, but with the same inscrutable expression he had turned on Violet the night before. The stranger’s voice faltered. Wordlessly, he turned away, leaving Sebastian in peace.

“I know he appears silent and grim,” continued Count Du Monde, “but that is because he has come to loath
e Crafters and Vampires alike.” He added, as almost an afterthought, “himself most of all. The undead are not exempt from the pain of living.”

Violet’s heart felt a sharp pang of pity
for the poor old gentleman. He looked sincerely bewildered by the sorrows of the world. Not knowing what to say, she reached forwards and patted his sleeve.