Descent Into Dust (29 page)

Dom Beauclaire’s eyes were bright with interest, locked on me as he advanced. In the light, I could see his skin was not so much wrinkled as translucent, finely lined, and mottled lightly with spots suggesting an age far past three score.

I sank into a reverent curtsy. There was something about this man that seemed to dictate such a show of respect. “Thank you for seeing me.”

His voice held an abundance of laughter as he bade me rise, and reminded me that he was not a king. “I have been told about you, Mrs. Andrews. Come with me.” His words were also tinged with the musical cadence of the Gallic language.

Under the guidance of his young charge, he led me away from the frowning doorman into a small, spartanly furnished room that opened up off the main hall. It contained only a few wooden chairs and a table up against a wall. For decoration there was a lone oil painting of a monk—perhaps Saint Benedict himself—and a crucifix.

When we were seated, Dom Beauclaire said to his escort, “Go and leave us, Alliot. I will have madam call you when I am ready.”

His eyes twinkled after the other monk left us with visible reluctance. “I am afraid young Dom Alliot is rather shocked at my insisting on being left alone with a woman.” His laugh was conspiratorial, as if he savored this whiff of scandal. I realized that although he was old, and a monk, this man was still French.

“You said you had been told about me?” I began, making it a question.

“Mr. Ivanescu’s letter was quite complete,” he said. “Oh, he is not here, but he told me of you. I have expected you.”

“But how could you? I only thought to come when my family cast me out.”

“And why did they do that, my child?” he asked, as if he knew.

“They discovered I was…” This was difficult. My fear of being spurned should I speak the truth nearly stopped me. But I had nothing to gain by being dishonest. “I was protecting a child from a vampire.” I stared at him, hardly daring to hope he would believe me. I was fully prepared for him to roar for Alliot and have me taken away. When he did not, I added weakly, “They did not believe me.”

His eyes were compassionate as he lifted a bony shoulder. “Who would?”

My question was pitched barely above a whisper. “Do you?”

Dom Beauclaire paused, taking my measure. “Do you know what this place is, Mrs. Andrews?” he finally said.

“This abbey? It is unusual, I can see, being an old château.”

“And tell me, then, why have you come here?” he asked.

“I do not know. My Uncle Peter wrote to you. I thought…I simply had no place else to go.”

He smiled comfortingly, nodding as if he approved. “It is as good a place to start as any. It is often after distractions are removed that we find the true path. You have come to the place you belong. You are Dhampir, are you not?”

My shock was numbing. It took me a moment to find my voice. “How did you know?”

“Because your kind find us, sooner or later. Take my hands.”

They were dry and cool. I fancied I could feel the bones under the paper-thin skin. But when he gripped me, it was with surprising strength. “Are you a woman of faith?” he asked, peering deeply into my eyes.

I wanted to say yes. Instead I answered truthfully. “I do not know what that means anymore.”

He nodded, and seemed pleased, although I could not fathom why. “What one has faith in makes all the difference. For one such as you, born of the blood of the beast, what is required most of all is to have faith in yourself. Do you?”

I hesitated. “I want to. I am learning.”

“But you are afraid.”

It was not a question, yet I nodded. He released my hands.

“Bon.”
Sitting back, he raised his gaze to the ceiling, letting it roam slowly from left to right. “You are mistaken about this place, Madame Andrews. It is not a monastery. It is an archive. I will tell you of its treasures, and some of its secrets. But first”—he layered his hands one over the other on the hilt of his stick—“you must tell me everything.”

The tale, as I told it from beginning to end to the black monk, seemed like something far beyond reason, even to me. I could not look at Dom Beauclaire, afraid I would see doubt,
horror, even disgust on his wizened features—or, worse, that wary, veiled look I’d seen in my father’s eye. The one Roger had worn, and Mary, only days ago.

When I was finished, he said simply, “The thing imprisoned in your English village must never be allowed to live again.”

“Can you help me?”

“In truth, I do not know.” His wise eyes watched me closely. “Take heart, Madame Andrews. There is a child involved, you say. Where there is the heart of innocence, there is always hope, for that is where God lives most.”

I was hardly reassured by his warm words. Her innocence was precisely why Henrietta was such a powerful draw for the evil gathering on the Wiltshire downs. “When do we begin?” I asked anxiously.

“Right away, I should think, as time is of the essence. You must have unlimited access to the archive, and to me, for no one knows the collection as I do. Therefore, it is best you stay in the château. Do not worry about seeming improper. Many come to this repository to study, and so it is quite regular. Dom Alliot will help you settle into a room.”

“Can you help me find a way to destroy Marius? Will that even protect Henrietta, or is it too late?”

“I will see you this evening, madame. We will have many days, and many questions. Some will be answered. Others cannot be.”

Alliott sent for my belongings at the village inn and led me through shadow-ridden halls and up a set of stone spiral steps to a barren, chilly tower room. I was brought food. When my portmanteau arrived, I unpacked a few things. That done, I sat by the glow of my lamp against the bare gold-brown stones and took in my surroundings, considering not only the iron
bedstead and long table with a chipped, ancient chair, but the remote location, the sturdy lock on the door, and the barred window. I realized this had once been a prison. My imagination twisted. That evening, as I waited for the call from Dom Beauclaire, I thought of long-dead souls who might have occupied this room and the hours they had spent here, waiting for clemency or execution.

I rushed to the door and tried it, half-fearful it would be locked. It opened. I sighed, scolded myself, and shut it. Then I settled down to wait.

Chapter Twenty-five

I
t was after midnight when Dom Alliot brought me down to the magnificent archive for the first time. If you are not in the habit of visiting a lending library or if you have not perused—as I have—the towering stacks of books in the great country houses, you perhaps would not realize how beyond imaginable was the amassing of materials stuffed inside the Amiens château.

Room after room, and on into the great hall, I proceeded through stories of shelving, ladders to reach the upper balconies, and free-standing stacks in the open spaces, lined up in militarily precise rows. Glass-encased flambeaus flickered on the walls, illuminating the leather spines. It was a cave of won
ders, but unlike Aladdin’s, my treasure was not gold but words. Knowledge.

The reedy voice of Dom Beauclaire floated toward me. “Madame Andrews, this way, please.” He was seated at a large table, surrounded by open books that revealed cracked and yellowed pages. He’d been watching me, taking in my reaction. “You have a love of books?”

“Oh, yes.” I lifted my eyes to the tomes surrounding me. “I have never seen so many.”

“This is a very extraordinary collection. From many lands, from sources banned and banished, these are the books not fit to be housed in Rome. But valuable nonetheless.” His gaze lifted to roam over the various materials. “Some were rescued from the Alexandrian library before it was burned. Some date back further than Egypt, written in symbols and painstakingly transcribed. We understood the hieroglyphic texts long before the Rosetta Stone.” His pursed mouth quirked at the secret. “These are all ancient writings for the most part, for it is an old knowledge we keep here, together with the controversies of our own age. Which is where we start tonight.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing. “Madame Andrews, there must be trust between us. You must understand why I can believe you, and all the others who came before you, those who were unfortunate to learn that the Holy Mother Church has known for many, many years of the existence of the
nosferatu
.” His gnarled hands slid a large, leather-bound volume to me. One crooked finger tapped the page. “Start here, madame.”

I read aloud:

I looked up. “What is this?”

“Go on,” the monk urged.

Dom Beauclaire leaned back, his movements stiff and labored. I was reminded that he was very old, his body fragile, and the hour was very late. “Look to the front piece. Written by Dom Augustine Calmet—a member of my own order—this work,
Dissertations sur les Apparitions des Anges, des Demons et des Esprits, et sur les Revenants et Vampires,
was published in the last century. Not hundreds of years ago, mind you, when superstition ruled our minds.”

“I was told the position of the Church is that vampires do not exist.”

The hint of a smile on his wrinkled face warmed it. “Indeed, it would seem that is not so, at least unofficially. There are some things Mother Church does not permit to be commonly known, for reasons many do not understand. The fact remains Dom Calmet believed, and wrote of his belief in this, an official church document that has never been declaimed by Rome.
Moreover, he came to his conclusion after a thorough investigation of the evidence.”

“Is this related to Father Luke, the priest I told you of?”

“Ah. Father Luke.” Dom Beauclaire’s sparse eyebrows leapt higher on his wrinkled brow. “And that secret society, with some members of which I am quite familiar. But that can wait.” He pushed a stack of scrolls at me. “Alliot has instructions to assist you while I am gone. My old bones get the better of me these days. As Our Lord so aptly put it: the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

“Dom Beauclaire, I cannot thank you enough,” I said emphatically.

He rose, leaning heavily on the table. “Good luck, Madame Andrews. I will pray for you.”

I began my instruction by reading the numerous and varied accounts of the vampire throughout time, and all over the world. Here in France and in much of Europe, these creatures were known by the Roman name
nosferatu
. In Greece, it was
vyrkolakas
. The gypsy name was
mullo
. In India, it was the
bhuta
. The Scots knew the legends of the
boabhan-sithe
, the dead that returned from the grave to drink the living blood and lived their cursed existence forever.

Most legends favored staking, beheading, and purifying fire to kill them. Salt, garlic, and wild rose were frequently named as being aversive to the undead, but not deadly. The ringing of a bell was said to entrance them. Drowning was emphatically stressed by some, while others discounted any effect at all.

“How will I know which of these methods are accurate?” I asked Dom Beauclaire one evening.

“I shall tell you the same as I have told all those like you who have found this place.” He lifted his head to peer at me quite
intently. “You will feel your way, madame. There is no instruction in the art of the Dhampir. Your gifts will manifest singular to you, both in the type and in the strength. These skills will follow from both your unique nature, as all gifts and talents do, as well as the magnitude of the vampire that made the one who passed its blood to you.”

My heart skipped, as it always did at the reference to my mother, and her terrible condition. “But Valerian Fox told me of the woman he’d known,” I said, “who had a connection to animals. Then, when the wolves threatened me, I was able to reach into them with my mind. I would not have thought of it had I not known of Naimah’s skill.”

“It is a coincidence, yes, but not necessarily instructive. There will naturally be some occasions in which you will possess the same ability as another, but these are cheats,
oui?
They are not worth the cost. If you model yourself on someone else, you travel a false path.”

“Then how am I to know what I am, and what I should do when faced with Marius?” I protested.

“The best way for you to prepare is within, not without.” The old monk reached his hand across the table, grasping mine and smiling bracingly. “You will learn. Do not despair, Madame Andrews.”

I was childishly sullen, although I saw the sense of what he told me. I was sick with worry for my Henrietta.

“It is a fearful affliction, as is my impatience. I beg your forgiveness if I seem petulant, sir.”

He waved away my apology. “Oh, madame, please. I have had swords drawn against me, as well as other interesting threats made against my life.” He chuckled, as if these recollections amused him. “You hunters are an emotional lot. I have
known many in my time. Oh, I understand, of course. It is quite natural when one deals with matters of the undead. Trust me, it is your curse that you will never feel up to the task, no matter how many times you have won in battle. You will constantly wrestle with doubts about your abilities and be absolutely convinced at every moment that you do not know or possess nearly enough.”

I gaped at him, mostly for the nonchalance with which he spoke of what I most acutely felt. When he saw my expression, he shrugged and smiled at me reassuringly. “Ah, I am not insensitive to how these insecurities torment you. I merely observe they seem to be unavoidable,
oui?
”