Camdeboo Nights (22 page)

“What is this place?” The words sounded rude in the silence, echoing back at him. This chamber was more a colonnaded passage, and ended in an arched set of double doors. These had been constructed from dark wood which terminated in a pointed arch. Set among this splendor, it appeared anticlimactic.

“You go see the man,” Lamp-bearer said.

Already they turned, Short-stuff slipping back through the crack. Lamp-bearer gave Trystan one long look before he followed his companion, taking the light with him so the gold-encrusted gem-work bled into dusk then darkness.

No good would come of trying to follow his captors out. The only way was forward, where a thin, pale vertical crack appeared in the door ahead and split outward to him.

Only forward. What else could he do? He approached, his gaze straying to the jewel-filled glares of jackal-headed men and cat-faced women. Of all the magical places known to vampire-kind, the catacombs below Cairo or the hidden byways deep in the Amazon, he had not ever suspected something of this magnitude existed, and beneath the Knysna forest, of all places.

Who had built this? Almost Egyptian looking, yet more flowing, the decorations hinted at Incan art. Neither culture had gone so all-out with so much wealth. Someone had clearly had far too much time on his hands.

The door had been polished to a mahogany sheen and was warm to the touch. He hesitated at the slit in the two panels. Should he wait until invited in or push, fake confidence and stride in?

Right now he didn’t feel confident or safe.

Only forward, he reminded himself, and strained for any sound save for his feet shuffling on the mother-of-pearl floor which slid oily and slick beneath his soles.

If they had wanted him dead, he’d have been very dead a lot sooner. With that, Trystan shoved and the doors parted and a warm, buttery light washed over him.

Compared to the one before, this chamber was simplicity in its essence, with pale stone walls rising to pointed, ribbed arches three meters above his head. Murals had been painted here, depicting people dressed in elaborate robes and feathered headdresses. Animals too, marched in regiments. Here a peacock, its tail a fan of unblinking eyes, there a pack of wolves gamboling around a unicorn crowned with roses. Fierce panthers rested next to an oryx with four tails and an eagle sat astride the back of a bull with a human face and large, curving horns.

“You can close your mouth, Trystan, you’re attracting flies,” a young boy said.

Trystan whirled around to look down upon the small figure clad in the black cassock of a priest. Instead of white, the dog collar made a rip of red at his throat and a heavy reversed crucifix hung from a chain around his neck.

“You haven’t changed, Darwin.”

“Unlike my namesake who, by now, has turned to dust.”

“The delightful irony,” Trystan said. “Would that you had followed in his footsteps.” He held himself still and concentrated on keeping his hands from clenching. Trystan drew as much of his Essence as deep as he could.

He couldn’t let the little fool know he was way out of his depth.

The boy approached. His hair gleamed like a starling’s wing, slicked back against his skull, accentuating a round face and large brown eyes so dark they shone black in the lamplight.

He paced around Trystan, his very shiny shoes clicking on the stone. Trystan was once again painfully reminded of how dirty he was, not to mention the state of his clothes.

“It’s been far too long. To be honest, I’m quite impressed, Trystan Owen, that you’ve managed to avoid the
jagters
for so many years.”

“I’m sure no one missed me.”

“Aah, but you know the elders. They have long memories and are quite tenacious. Especially in the face of a slight–real or imagined.”

“Which is why you’re still in hiding.”

Darwin hissed, and paused in his striding to glare at Trystan. The child vampire’s anger made a mockery of his fine–and as some would describe it–angelic features. Some who didn’t know any better, and usually didn’t live long enough to tell the tale.

They’d last met during the sixties, when Trystan had made a rare foray to a suburb near central Johannesburg, still skirting the edges of “respectable” vampiric society. That’s when he had heard about the vampiric child created against traditional choices. Darwin hadn’t helped matters by killing his maker.

Trystan struggled to hide the smirk curling to his lips. “Hypocrite,” he muttered.

“You’d do well to watch your words, junkie. You forget who has the upper hand here.”

“Still full of temper,” Trystan replied. “Fine. I tire of these games, Darwin. Why do you care enough to employ Mantis? She’s known for playing double agent. You should know that by now.”

Darwin’s frame went taut, as if he’d considered saying something but thought better of it.

Trystan decided to take a chance. Sure, Darwin could call his goons and cause some damage but he hunkered down so he was at eye level to the other vampire. “You haven’t learned much during the past seventy years, have you?”

“You forget yourself, junkie.” Darwin placed hands with sharp fingernails on either side of Trystan’s face, digging into his flesh so that if he turned away, he would only be able to do so by incurring damage. Those feral eyes blazed into him.

He’d forgotten he was not dealing with a kid anymore. Darwin had had seventy years to settle, seventy years to cultivate resources, which Trystan had neglected.

“You have my undivided attention, Darwin, but kindly don’t touch me.”

Darwin continued to stare into his eyes a moment longer before he shoved Trystan back so that he overbalanced and landed on his backside.

Trystan did not, however, allow his discomfort to show. Instead, he pulled his knees up and summoned a mild expression.

He should have ripped Darwin’s throat out in 1967 when he’d had the chance.

“You’re at a disadvantage. We both know it, so don’t think you can behave in a patronizing manner. I’d like to offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“You want me to join your cause. You’ve been using Mantis to round up all the miscreants she can find.”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s the catch? What does she get out of pandering to your needs? Mantis has never been one to work for a few golden trinkets. By all rights she should be sitting with the elders, not doing the dirty work for the likes of you.”

“Let’s just say she’s dissatisfied with the status quo.”

“So, you lead her right up to your front door?” Trystan gestured toward the entrance and the chamber beyond.

“If you think that this is the limit of my empire, you’re seriously mistaken.” Darwin grimaced.

Empire? Surely he was bluffing. But something in the Black Pope’s tone made Trystan uncomfortable. Yes, the kid had been full of himself, nearly succeeding in his coup during the sixties.

An invisible force slammed into Trystan, knocking him back several meters. He scrambled to his feet with a hiss. The kid vampire had wielded Essence. Like one of the mortal magi.

“How?”

The small boy laughed, throwing back his head to reveal three-inch-long canines as his peals of laughter rang off the walls.

“Do you honestly think I’d be idle over the past few years, like you?”

Trystan
reached
, a reflex action born of a sudden hunch, only to recoil from the sheer presence of the Black Pope’s Essence. If he hadn’t pulled back his own awareness so much he’d have known sooner.

Like walking blind, stupid fool of a vampire that he was. Too many years of being too careful. And now Darwin had upped the ante.

“Scary, isn’t it?”

A vision of Helen laughing, pointing at constellations and asking their names came. Helen! And, Mantis, no doubt, zoning in on her. Would Mantis bring Helen here?

Would she
eat
her? That was a possibility. Would she take Helen to the elders in Joburg, where others with more subtle gifts for crafting Essence resided?

Swallowing back his concern, Trystan showed his fangs. “You’re a crass fool, Darwin. To answer you, I’ll say yes, and even now I reckon you’re losing out on an even better opportunity than I.”

A gamble, but it may just give him a chance to get out of here. Darwin needn’t know about everything, about the Wareings, for instance. An ace up his sleeve could only be to his advantage.

“There’s this girl. She’s a natural. Talent of her scale hasn’t been seen since–”

If he played his cards right, he’d be out of this place way before sunrise, perhaps in time to catch Helen before Mantis dragged her all the way to the elders, for he was sure she would not be brought here. Mantis was playing her own game and he meant to untangle himself from it before it became too complicated.

Chapter 26

The Void and the Aborted

Despite being in hospital, Arwen looked far too smug.

“She’s dead, Arwen, don’t you think about it at all?” Etienne swung his legs off the edge of the chair. He didn’t care that he looked stupid, kicking his heels as if he were a five-year-old.

Arwen pulled the covers up to her chin, her dark eyes glittering. “Odette and the rest deserved it. I don’t think my silly curse had anything to do with it. We both know that she pushed things too far. Someone was bound to snap at some point.”

Etienne bit his lip and focused his hearing on the hiss of the air-conditioner, on the cool, dry air turning the spit on his lips bitter. She had no remorse. They’d almost all gotten killed and Arwen sat there like the cat that got the canary.

“When do you get out? I don’t mind your dad. I’d like to have a break from the dorms.” A change of topic, in other words.

“And now I’m suddenly good enough for you since Miss Perfect has left town?” Arwen’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Screw it, Arwen! I thought we were friends.” Bitch.

The hardness left her features and she exhaled. Small and doll-like, she sank into the pillows which propped her up. “Fuck it, Etienne. I need a smoke. I guess I’m just crabby. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

“’S fine. We’ve all been a bit...stressed.” He gave a dry chuckle, and picked at the upholstery’s loose thread. “I feel sorry for Timothy that he had to crack like this. It could easily have been you or–”

Arwen snorted. “Not bloody likely. You don’t see me stashing samurai swords underneath my bed.”

“The curse.”

“Bollocks to the curse. It’s all hocus-pocus, mind games. That wasn’t real magic.”

“As opposed to? Never mind.” Etienne sighed, shaking his head. “When are you getting out?”

“Tomorrow, after ten. The doc wants to see me before I’m discharged. And, yes, I’ll ask my dad. He’ll do anything to keep me happy right now. He’s even talking about allowing me to stay home to finish high school through correspondence.”

“Bitch.” Etienne spoke without force.

Down the hall, the night nurse rang a small bell, the tinkling faint but persistent.

“That’s it for now,” Arwen said. “No matter how short you are, there’s no hiding you. Not even in the cupboard.”

“Nurse thought I was under twelve. Asked me where my parents were, said no kids allowed without their folks. Boy, you should have seen her jump when I–”

“Your lovely tenor. Good goddess, Etienne. I need to get away from this mess.”

“We will,” Etienne replied as he slipped to his feet. He padded to Arwen’s bed then reached out and clasped his friend’s too-cold fingers. “We can pretend like this didn’t happen.”

“We can go to Al’s and beg a pint of homebrew.”

“Yes, we can even do that.”

Arwen smiled back at him, her skin transparent beneath the flickering fluorescent light.

“See you,” she said at the precise moment that the matron peeked into the ward.

Etienne waved at the flustered woman, and hurried out into the corridor where the brown carpet with its chevron pattern muffled the footsteps of dozens of other concerned friends and relatives. Eight o’clock. He hadn’t the heart to tell Arwen he had slipped out from school, claiming a headache, so they wouldn’t miss him during dinner.