Descent Into Dust (30 page)
“So you are saying I am
normal
?”
He tapped his gnarled finger to his parchment lips. “But after all, Madame Andrews, it falls upon you as Dhampir to face alone unthinkable evil with powers beyond mortal comprehension using means that for unknowable reasons vary in their potency and reliability, and all the time without any training or education other than your own ability to find what you need within yourself.” He lifted a bony shoulder in a Gallic shrug. “If one of you loses your temper with me now and then, I do not mind so much. I have not suffered injury yet. So let us not trouble ourselves with apologies. I have information,
oui
, but not everything you need to know will be found here. But it will help.”
With that, he came to sit beside me. “What are you researching at the moment?”
I showed him the sources I’d collected. “I am trying to educate myself generally, of course,” I explained. “However, I am particularly interested in a reference to a serpent or a dragon. It seems to be a repeated motif in the Avebury area…”
My voice trailed off when I saw his reaction. I waited until he cleared his throat. “The dragon?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied excitedly. I grabbed a charcoal and quickly sketched the shape of the winged reptile. “It was in paintings in the church, and the gypsy who attacked me had a tattoo of this on his arm. Have you seen this particular symbol?”
“Oh, yes, many times, many times.” His old face crumpled, exaggerating the lines of age. “I am afraid, however, I will be of no help to you. The information on the Dracula is kept elsewhere.” He lifted his hand in anticipation of my obvious question. “And no, I do not know where. No one knows where. I suspect it sits in the heart of the Vatican, where only a select few can access it.”
This was deeply disappointing. And troubling. “Do you know the reason for all of this extraordinary secrecy?”
His eyes glowed. “I do not
know
, but I can imagine. Whenever I have heard that name…” He paused, then spoke in sharp syllables, “Dracula…It has meant terrible things. For the hunter does not always win, Madame Andrews. You know this. When the Dragon Prince is involved, it goes poorly for mortals.”
A few days into my stay, I received one of my regular notes from Sebastian, giving me an update on Henrietta’s status. As usual, he reported she remained stable and seemingly well. This was only partial relief, for how long could I expect her to be safe? This increased my sense of urgency and did my patience, so necessary in the tedious research in which I was engaged, no good.
Sebastian also sent disturbing news, which quickened my pulse when I read it. Miss Harris had gone missing. I could not
make up my mind if this was a good or bad omen. I could not help but be pleased she was no longer in proximity to Henrietta, but the question arose: Had Marius simply no longer needed her now that I was out of the picture? The thought soured my mood. Was the lord vampire so confident then?
Sebastian reported Mr. Fox remained at Dulwich Manor, but his mysterious comings and goings were a growing annoyance to his hosts, and Sebastian feared Mary and Roger might soon ask him to leave.
I turned broody after reading this. Going to the great atlas which rested by itself on a podium in one sunlit corner, ready for frequent reference, I opened it and turned its crisp pages until I found a map of England. I traced my finger west from London, under Oxford to the point just north of the Salisbury plain, where Stonehenge was located, to the town of Avebury. I frowned, finding the Saint Michael line along which it lay, beginning with Saint Michael’s Mount at Marazion in Cornwall all the way across the south of England to Canterbury in Kent.
On this map, there were curious notations. Northeast of Avebury, near Royston, was a legend indicating something called Wanderbury Stone Ring. To the west was a similar mention for Hurlers Stone Circle. Outposts, Father Luke had said, along the power meridian. It was then I noticed Glastonbury, and my thoughts sputtered to a stop. Glastonbury was on the Saint Michael’s lay line. Had I known that?
The proud tones of Mrs. Tigwalt, Father Luke’s territorial housekeeper, came into my recollection. She had told me the legend of Joseph of Aramethea, who, upon reaching England, struck his staff to the ground, causing the Holy Hawthorn to grow. That had been, according to the legend, at Glastonbury. And nearby, at what was still known as the Chalice Well, Joseph
was rumored to have secreted the cup of Christ, which was why it ran red with His blood.
Red with blood…I had not believed her at the time.
I excitedly searched for everything on Glastonbury I could find, calling on Alliot to aid me. A few hours later, I found in a small pamphlet something that solidified my suspicions.
The design of the emblem denoting the Chalice Well—two circles intersecting, the center part an oval—was remarkably similar to the fish symbol I’d seen on Father Luke’s ring and the broken seal under Marius’s tree. The pamphlet gave a name for the sign as the
vesica piscis
.
My heart skipped a beat. This
vesica piscis
marked the site of the holy well, which was actually a set of pools fed by a natural spring—hence the twin circles—where the Holy Grail was said to reside. Due to the iron deposits through which the spring flowed underground, the pools of the well were supplied a steady stream of water tinged with red.
The significance of this reached deep into my bones. Who has not put a cut to their mouth and felt that sour tinge on the edge of the tongue? A stream running with ferrous oxide would taste…
It would taste like blood. Blood flowing from the very earth.
W
hen I told this to Dom Beauclaire, I was wary he might think my interpretation wrong, even profane. But his eyes glowed with excitement. “Excellent! Come.” He took my arm and leaned heavily on me as he directed me through the old rooms. “Of course, what we need might be housed in one of the other archive locations. I do not recall having much here on the subject.”
“Other locations?”
“Oh, many.” He waved his hand as if to dismiss the pride in his smile. “An old Bohemian castle outside of Prague, a Venetian palazzo sinking into the Adriatic—I worry constantly about that one. Some are general, as this one is. Others have their own specialty: curses, witchcraft, hauntings, and of course
vampires. The main repository of the revenant manuscripts lies in Copenhagen.”
I had been stunned by this place, by the vastness of the collection in the hall. The revelation that there was more was almost too much to fathom.
He chuckled at my gaping amazement. “A network of secret locations scattered across many lands is thought to best safeguard against fire or intentional destruction. There are many who would see the archives, and all the wisdom they contain, lost to mankind forever.”
We eventually uncovered information in some old journals of an eighteenth-century man obsessed with England’s Arthurian legends indicating he had found evidence that Glastonbury was the actual location of the mythical Isle of Avalon, the final resting place of the legendary King Arthur.
“But it is nowhere near the sea,” Dom Beauclaire puzzled. “How can it be an island?”
“It is set inland now, but long ago the area all around it was swamp, and the miles of flatland were under water. The tor is elevated. See this drawing, how high it rises? It would have appeared as an island.” I read on. “Odd, how the legend of Arthur is tied so closely with this place. Both the quest for the Grail, which is at the Chalice Well right there in Glastonbury, and the burial on Avalon.”
Dom Beauclaire held up a finger as a thought caught hold. “Your King Arthur is somewhat of a Christ figure inasmuch as it is believed he will rise again someday to protect his beloved isle,
oui?
” His head came up sharply. “Where is Stukeley’s book?”
We kept
Avebury, a Temple of the British Druids
, always on hand, because Dr. Stukeley’s research was vital to our theories. He opened the book to the detailed drawing of the Great Stone
Serpent, and bent over it, studying the figure for a long time.
I peered over his shoulder, but I knew by heart the lay of the sarcen stones, how they formed the shape of a great snake, the West Kennet and Beckhampton avenues forming the spines, flowing off into the tail. The Sanctuary lay at the head of the serpent.
“This is indeed remarkable. It is a serpent, there is no doubt. Very significant. The serpent is regarded as a symbol of eternal life,” Dom Beauclaire said, raising his head at last.
“I had heard this,” I said.
“Now, let us go back to the tale of your King Arthur. Again, renewed life when the king rises again for England,
c’est vrai?
”
I saw his point, and an idea occurred to me. “Yes. And think, too, of how the Holy Grail was sought by Arthur’s knights because it was believed—still is believed—that it possessed the gift of eternal life for any who drank from it.”
His smile faded into a frown of concentration. “Let us think on this a moment. In this we see the confluence of the profane and the holy. In the vampire, one finds another life after death. It blasphemes eternal life.” His lined face went cold. “This place where this great serpent of stone lies, you said you were told it is where the living and the dead both reside.”
“It is along the lay line, where the worlds of the living and the dead meet,” I clarified. “This is what Mr. Hess told me. He had researched it for all of his life.”
Dom Beauclaire appeared suddenly haggard and old, frighteningly fragile. “And there is the sign of the Dracula, which you have reported seeing in abundance.”
When I saw the fear in his eyes, the bottom dropped out of my heart.
“My dear Madame Andrews, this suggests something quite alarming. There are evils in the ancient world that warriors of virtue have battled, and vanquished. If there lies in this holy prison something so vile, so destructive and virulent that it requires all the charms we see laid out before us, then this thing is terrible indeed. I am thinking it is an ageless vampire, one so great it could not be killed by the tools those who dealt with it had to work with.”
“But what does Marius want with it?” I asked. Then something occurred to me. “Vampires acquire the powers of those they feed upon,” I murmured, seeing it all now. “If he were to release it, then kill it, take it into himself—”
Dom Beauclaire raised a shaking hand to his face. “Imagine the power. If the Dracula is involved here, it has to be immense, unimaginable…My God, Madame Andrews, think of it; the ability to destroy and dominate would be enormous.”
“Perhaps you should rest,” I urged, suddenly alarmed by his palsied state.
“The day will come very soon, Madame Andrews, when I will rest.” He drew himself upright. “Tonight we must work. There is little time to find a way to arm you against this fight. The spring is nearly upon us, and when the time of evil breaks on these lands, something most terrible, most unimaginably wicked, will be unleashed.”
I dreamt of the hawthorn tree coming to life and reaching its deadly arms toward me. A large black crow nestled in its branches, its flat, black eyes like jet beads afire with glee. In the twisting bark, I saw faces flash, ugly, twisted visions of my sister, of Mary and Roger, and Alan. They hated me. Then I saw
Marius’s shadow behind them, and the crow cawed in triumph. I tried to cry out to warn them, but they would not listen.
I broke out of my dream, out of sleep, and sat bolt upright as the perfect memory of Marius assembled in my mind, bringing with it a flood of emotions that left me near tears. I still felt him, sometimes. Inside me, in my mind, in my veins.
I quickly rose from bed and dressed, disciplining myself to study my notes. A short while later, someone rapped upon my door. I assumed it was Dom Alliot with my breakfast. “Put it on the table by the bed. Thank you.”
But it was Dom Beauclaire who answered me. “Madame Andrews, I have someone here to see you.”
I immediately started, looking up to find a tall, lanky figure ducking under the transom. He straightened, stared at me, and said, “Hello, Mrs. Andrews.”
Breath seemed quite beyond my capacity. His presence sucked the air from the room, leaving me in a vortex of shock. “Mr…. Mr. Fox. What the devil are you doing here?”
I cannot do justice to the unexpectedly violent emotion that came upon me. It was as if up until that moment, I had not fully comprehended how alone and frightened I’d been, and it was only then, as I looked on his composed face with the exotic cheekbones and obsidian eyes, that it all came crashing over me. I was vaguely aware that I was angry with him, that I was not quite certain just how much I could trust him. And yet, it did not diminish the sheer relief of that particular familiar face, appearing here when I was feeling so isolated and far from home.
I tried to stand, but my knees turned to water. My vision blurred—I am ashamed to admit—with the flux of tears and,
as the one side of his mouth pulled upward in wry acknowledgment that my reaction flattered him, I had to hold myself back from foolishly throwing myself into his arms.
Instead, I went rigid—a good Englishwoman’s comfort—and said nothing more while I waited for my pounding heart to quiet.
“Forgive my intrusion,” was his reply. I bit off my reassurances that indeed, it was no intrusion—no, not at all—then the single blade of panic rushed through my happiness. “Henrietta—?”
He stepped forward, holding out a halting hand. “No, no. All is well. Or rather, as well as can be expected. Perhaps it is better to say nothing has changed.”
“Miss Harris, she is still gone?”
He nodded, his brow creasing. “A new nurse has come. But Sebastian is not content to rest his guard of the child. He accompanies them everywhere, and he has set a watch on them at night without their knowing.”
“I doubt there is much Marius misses.”
His eyes sliced a glance to the monk to my right. I, too, looked to Dom Beauclaire. He was happy to see me pleased, I saw.