Descent Into Dust (12 page)
But I had done such a thing with Valerian Fox, and I was not ashamed. My shaking eased. I had helped drive an evil creature back into the realm of death. I thought of that, then, and in time my sleep came, dreamless and deep; what my stepmother used to call the sleep of the just.
The world, upon my waking late in the morning, was different. I lay abed, wondering if I’d dreamt the early morning’s mission to the stable. If I had, it had been the most frightening nightmare imaginable, for it had seemed real. Could I truly accept the existence of vampires? Such things were mere legends, terrible creatures fantasized in superstition. But I had seen the creature Wadim come back to life. I had battled the serpents and through some spectacular, completely unanticipated skill, killed six. These things were not my imagination.
Those were not the only reasons that convinced me that what was happening here in Avebury was real. The other I can only name as instinct, although that is not an adequate way to describe it. More my nature, I think, unfurling slowly, jerkily, incrementally aware that there was a world beyond the safe, ordered existence of the human race, and that, for some reason, I had acquired a particular glimpse into it.
I rose with a sense of purpose and dressed quickly, anxious to meet with Mr. Fox. We had much to discuss.
However, Alyssa was waiting for me, casting aside her cards when I entered the drawing room. “Emma,” she cried, indicating the seat next to her on the couch. “I have to talk to you about the embroidery for the baby’s layette. We must get started right away and I haven’t decided if I’m going to do daisies or roses.”
I almost quipped that either would be inappropriate if the child were a boy, but realized such an observation would not be
appreciated. I adopted an indulgent manner. “I am sure whatever you decide will be lovely.”
Mr. Hess was holding court, and I overheard him mention The Sanctuary and something about a Catholic church. “Saint Michael’s was never taken over, either by the Tudors or Cromwell, which is remarkable as it is quite a wealthy holding.”
Mrs. Bedford said, “This is the parish up past Overton Hill, and you say it lies directly upon this line?”
“What do you think is the right time to begin letting out my dresses?” Alyssa asked, pulling my attention away. “I shall hate being fat and misshapen…Emma. Are you listening?”
“Indeed, yes,” I answered, although this was only partially true. I regretted I could not be more attentive now that Alyssa finally needed me to provide the kind of companionship she required. “Maybe some new shawls will be the cure,” I said, thinking quickly. “If you collect some really interesting pieces, you can wrap yourself in them in any dress and they will draw the attention from your condition.”
Her mouth made a small “O” of delight. “I have the Chinese silk, of course,” she declared excitedly. “I could embellish some others. I am skilled with a needle.”
I was delighted with my cleverness. She and Mary began to discuss the possibilities, and as the two of them were amply distracted, I was able to eavesdrop once again on the group behind me.
Mr. Hess was speaking. “So our Saint Michael in the Fields is part of the Saint Michael Line, you see.”
“Not our Saint Michael’s, surely,” harrumphed Sir William, rolling his eyes, “as we are no papists.”
Hess’s previous profession as an Oxford don became evident as he warmed to his subject. “The power meridians of which I
speak have to do with ancient beliefs in forces that flow naturally through the earth’s body.”
“Pagan nonsense!” declared Sir William.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Hess, “that is the popular opinion. I have been trying to get a paper published on the subject for an eternity, but the obvious is all but ignored. That does not change the fact that there is ample evidence of forces scoring the surface of our earth, spiritual paths where things out of the ordinary are common occurrence.”
“What are these forces?” I asked, twisting in my seat, abandoning the pretense of attending my sister.
“The sort of thing the old religions of the area used to know,” Mr. Hess said with a warm smile for my interest. Behind him, Sir William scowled darkly at such talk, but Mr. Hess, bless him, was immune—if not unaware—of the disapproval directed at him.
I was intrigued. “This meridian, then, what exactly does it do?”
“Well, that is the thing, isn’t it—how can we know? All that is known is that when the Christians came to our fair isle, Rome made it a priority to take possession of the pagan shrines along the line that stretches from Land’s End to East Anglia, and each one, including newer churches and chapels, is dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel. And the line cuts directly through the heart of our village of Avebury.”
Mr. Bedford cleared his throat. “Saint Michael being the great archangel, God’s general, you recall. It was he, in fact, who defeated Lucifer, and cast him straight into hell for the sin of pride.” He was using his pulpit voice, and the final three words rang with victory.
His wife leaned in eagerly. “My husband’s point is interesting. Think of this, Mr. Hess. Saint Michael defeated the devil
and this same fallen angel appeared to Adam and Eve in the form of a serpent. Can this be the connection to that stone serpent figure laid into the downs?”
“Just so,” Mr. Hess agreed with a smile that bespoke he was of the same mind.
“Indeed,” Mr. Bedford interjected, adopting his sermonizing voice, “it was to tempt a weak-willed woman that the serpent appeared in Eden. He appealed to Eve’s vanity.”
Mrs. Bedford did me the favor of a silent reprimand in a manner only a wife could deliver. At her scowl, Mr. Bedford appeared alarmed and lapsed into silence.
“Emma!” Mary’s voice was sharp, bringing me around with a start. I realized I had forgotten my sister.
Alyssa had tears in her eyes. “I see you can scarce be bothered with a word I’ve said. Well, if I’m boring you, I’ll take myself away. I do hate to be trying.”
She fled the room. My conscience flared.
Mary leaned forward. “I know she is difficult, Emma, but think of her condition. Pray hurry to console her before she becomes overset.”
Any other time I would have rushed to do exactly that. In fact, I rose, poised to follow my cousin’s advice, but at that moment Mr. Fox appeared. He caught my eye meaningfully.
I realized my unhappy choice. Of all the times I’d wanted to take Alyssa into my arms and comfort her, now that she needed me I could not capitulate.
Mr. Fox was waiting.
W
e arranged to meet in the small room across the hall, a formal drawing room unused at the moment. Pleading different excuses, we slipped out—he first, then I—and tiptoed across the parquet of the center foyer.
When I entered the room, he crossed to me, and took my hands in his. “Are you…well?” he asked, peering at me deeply.
I daresay, I was not unmoved by his sincere manner, nor the warmth of his hands folded over mine. His nearness, too, made my head feel a bit light, and I was unnaturally affected by the scent of his soap, some exotic, spicy aroma that hinted of the travels to Turkey and Egypt he’d mentioned.
“I seem to be,” I said, somewhat dazed. I was used to his
being aloof, even rude. This attentiveness was disconcerting.
One corner of his mouth jerked in a semblance of a smile. “How many times have you decided that you are insane, or that I am?”
I smiled. “Too numerous to count.”
“And it is not yet a day. It is not something one takes on easily.” He was closer than he needed to be, but it felt comforting. “You have, I must say, responded amazingly well. No shrieking or pulling of hair. You are of an astonishing constitution.”
Yes. I’d noticed that, too. “I suppose I have,” I replied.
“I wonder if you’ve experienced phenomenon like this before. The sightings you described, the shadows and such?”
“No. Never.” I disengaged my hand and walked stiffly to take a seat. “I found the source of the quote carved into the trunk of the hawthorn tree. I told you it reads ‘The Blood is the Life,’ if you recall. That comes directly from the Bible, the Book of Deuteronomy, to be exact, which says…”
I closed my eyes and concentrated, bringing forth the words I’d committed to memory. “‘Only be sure that you do not eat the blood: for the blood is the life; and you may not eat the life with the flesh.’”
“How extraordinary,” he murmured, pacing the width of the expensive Aubusson carpet, then back again. “But if I recall that portion of the Bible, these were just dietary laws for the Jewish people.”
“Yet it reads like an uncanny prohibition against the evil temptation to drink blood and live into eternity. Do you see? It further links the tree to Marius. That place must have a particular significance.”
He paused, staring. “Indeed.”
“Marius is drawn there, and it is located in a rather unique
spot. Mr. Hess says that ancients have built an immense temple to the dead here in Avebury, as represented by the stone monument stretching along the entirety of Overton Hill. He was just now expounding on his belief in something called a power meridian, which runs through this area, as well as other spots significant in the lore of pagan mysticism. This was something he called the Saint Michael Line.”
Fox grew thoughtful. “I must find an opportunity to speak with Mr. Hess. But for the moment, I wish to ask you something which has been much on my mind since yesterday. It is about what you did to the snakes in the barn. You described that they attacked, an event which would disconcert any person—to say the least. Yet you dispatched all but one with alacrity, using only a pitchfork and ingenuity.” He was assessing me with his dark, dark eyes. And there was something there, a suspicion glimmering just below the surface as he asked, “Exactly how does a gently bred lady such as yourself come to possess such skill?”
“I am sure I do not know, Mr. Fox, and that is the truth.” I was not about to discuss the deep grip of tension I felt over this very matter. For all of the madness of the past week, this was the thing I could not quite assimilate. How
had
I done what I’d done?
Wishing to change the subject from me, I asked, “Do you have any idea where Marius has his…well, I hardly know what to call it—bower? I assume the folklore of a vampire needing to return to his grave is true.”
He knew my ploy, but went along with it. “I have not found it. In all my years of tracking him, I’ve succeeded in locating it only once, when it was guarded by a very capable minion, a
particularly vicious Punjab fellow I hope you never have the misfortune to meet.”
“It must be on The Sanctuary. He favors that place.”
He cocked his head as a thought struck him. “I’ve looked, I assure you. But only the most outrageous stroke of luck will help us uncover it. He has not lived for centuries by being careless when he sleeps, for that is when he is most vulnerable. The cleverness in concealing his bower is nearly impenetrable. I know of no way to locate it other than to follow him to it, which happened under extraordinarily singular circumstances when I accomplished it the one time.”
I mulled over what he had said. “So if he must burrow in his grave during daylight, how is it he appeared to Henrietta, and to me?”
He folded his arms over his chest, stretching the seams of his coat over his broad shoulders. This must have been uncomfortable, and he asked, “Do you mind?” indicating he would like to remove the garment.
I waved him on and when he had doffed the confining thing, he explained. “Keep in mind he did not emerge from his slumber, but merely sent a shade of himself to communicate with the child. In this form, the creatures are quite literally invisible. Except to some.” He narrowed his eyes and considered me for a thoughtful moment. “Children are sensitive to these things, for their innocence makes them vulnerable. And perhaps your love of the child made you equally so.”
Not a bad theory, but I did not quicken at consideration of it. Nor did he. I could see how he was watching me, a close scrutiny that was far too intense. Disconcerted, I rose and paced to the window. I was annoyed, although uncertain whether the
object of my irritation was he or myself. “The dreary weather wears on one’s nerves,” I said idly. “I’ve never seen a more dismal spring.”
“He commands the elements, you know.”
Yes. I had heard that long ago, listening to dark, frightening tales as a child. A vampire can summon a storm. “You make him sound invincible.”
He said nothing, not even when I turned to face him. I wished he had. Mr. Fox was looking at me with a peculiar and decidedly uncomfortable fierceness of concentration. “There are those who are born to fight the vampire. Those with innate powers. Gifts. Even a master vampire such as Marius fears them.”
A strange sensation bubbled up inside me. Fear and excitement. Fox blinked, as if catching himself having given up intelligence unwittingly. He made to turn away, saying, “We should get back to the others. They will come looking for us soon.”
I grabbed him by the arm and turned him forcefully back to me. My strength was no match for his and had he wished to leave, he would have done so. Yet he was kind enough to attend me with a patience that surprised me.
“Mysteries and riddles again, Mr. Fox? Have we not gone past this point?”
There was a fine dew of sweat on his brow. “You will not thank me for the question I am about to ask, but very well, Emma. Tell me, what do you know of your mother?”
My head snapped back, as if I’d received a slap. “What?”
His gaze was sly—or was that my imagination? I was never quite rational on the subject of my mother. For too many years, I’d suffered innuendo and avoidance.
He leaned forward. “Your mother, Mrs. Andrews. Who was she?”
“Her name was Laura Newly. Why?”
“And what do you know of how she died?”
“She…” It struck me that he had not asked if she were alive or dead. I began to feel a vague disorientation, such as when extreme anxiety dulls the wits. “Sh-she was ill.”
“Ill, was she? A wasting disease?”