Descent Into Dust (31 page)
Then, like icy water dumped shockingly over sun-heated flesh, my body went cold. I remembered Mr. Fox’s deception with the bloodied hawthorn switch. He had lied to me. He had betrayed me.
I drew myself together. “What has brought you here?” I was satisfied at the coldness I’d injected into my tone.
“May we speak privately?”
I did not know at first if Dom Beauclaire would allow this,
for it meant, after all, a man and a woman alone in a bedchamber, but he tactfully withdrew with a measured look in my direction.
I had taken no notice that Mr. Fox had his satchel bag with him. He placed it now on the table and drew it open. From its depths he took an oilcloth, folded over so that it looked like nothing more than rags.
He handed it to me. “This belongs in your possession, not mine.”
I unwrapped it with shaking hands, for I already knew what it was. I gazed upon the hawthorn switch, tipped with the vampire lord’s blood, in my palm. “I knew you took it,” I said. “I found it when I went to leave you a note of farewell.”
“Then you already knew I had lied to you,” he said quietly. His dignity composed his face, but his eyes blazed with agony, perhaps even humiliation. Would a man such as this commit dishonor without good reason? I asked myself. I wanted so badly to believe in him.
“Why?” I pleaded, uttering the single word softly but with passion.
“Why did I take it, or why did I lie?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“You know why I took it.” His nostrils flared, pride asserting itself to the fore. “There is vampire blood on that thing, and although I do not know how to harness it, there is no doubt it holds great power. Power I wished to use to defeat Marius.”
“You kept it from me. Did you think I would misuse it? Squander it?”
“I lied,” he said carefully, “to protect myself.” He bowed his head, gesturing to what I held in my hand. “But you must have
it, learn how to use it. You are Dhampir, you will know what to do.”
“But I do not.”
“Then you will. Or we will together. It is not an easy thing for me, Emma. I have been alone a very, very long time—much longer than you can even imagine. I can only say I have come to understand that you and I, we must allow nothing to come between us. If we are to have any chance in this war, we must stand together.”
I gazed at the sharpened point, black with the dried blood. “I did read something in a journal here, kept by a Greek hunter who studied the nature and use of vampire blood. It said something about the power held by a revenant’s blood being the result of how the vampire absorbed the life, the essence, and the strengths or weaknesses of those they feed upon.”
Fox agreed. “Of course. The blood is the life. Consuming life feeds the vampire, its victims’ blood feeds its blood. And life is the essence of magic.” He leaned forward eagerly. “What of the possession of vampire blood by another vampire? Would that give the possessor the same power to absorb the energy of its victim?”
“I…” I had not read anything to answer that specific question. But something stirred inside, the faint vestiges of knowing. I somehow knew the communion of blood, even through the medium of the stick, would form a bond, though I did not understand how or why. I said, therefore, only: “I do not know.”
Mr. Fox pierced me with a look, and I was surprised by the desperation, the gravity I saw there. He had told Father Luke that Marius had taken something from him. He wanted very badly to destroy the vampire lord, and I do not think I had
known until that moment how fervently and single-mindedly he was dedicated to that goal.
He pressed my hand, in which lay the tainted switch. “When the time comes,” he said to me, “you may know what to do.”
He drew up a stool. Folding his hands on the table, he trained his gaze on his grasped fingers. “You must think me craven,” he said at last.
I settled on the edge of the bed. “I do not recall it ever mattering to you one way or the other what my opinion was.”
“That was never true. If I am reserved…it is with reason.” He touched a pile of books, his long fingers reverent as they ran lightly over the leather bindings.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
He gave a small chuckle, a hint of the charm that had so captivated me. “I have been tracking vampires for years. Finding one Englishwoman in France was no challenge.”
His eyes drifted down to the book open on the table. Idly he thumbed the pages. “You know, Emma, I came here to bring you back.”
I did not feel ready to leave. The very thought made me acutely, uncomfortably aware of my lack of knowledge. “I know Beltane is not far off. But I need more time.”
“I need you with me.” He seemed to catch himself, adding, “If we are to kill Marius and save Henrietta, we must remain together. For now.”
How foolish I was to be disappointed.
“I should like to rest and eat,” he said, taking his leave. “I would like to join you in the archive later, if I may. Dom Beauclaire suggested it, but it must be agreeable to you.”
“Of course,” I replied. When he’d gone, I felt different. Better.
I did not know why his presence here made me glad, for he had not brought any news to improve our situation, but I was—for once—not alone.
Fox was already with Dom Beauclaire when I entered the room where we had been working. “Ah, Madame Andrews,” Dom Beauclaire said in greeting, “I have asked Mr. Fox what it is he wishes most to learn, and he has told me it is the history, and perhaps insight into the purpose, of this priest of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing.”
I was taken aback. “Father Luke?”
“You may consult the source materials yourself, but I shall summarize it for you in the interests of time. The knighthood does indeed exist. It was formed first as a Royal Brotherhood of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing in Portugal in the wake of victory in the Holy Land during the crusades.”
He held up a cautionary finger at my frown of confusion. “Apocryphal annals tell a different tale. You see, after returning victorious in the wake of their battle with the Saracens, some of the knights fell under a peculiar malaise, one you would find familiar as the indications of the vampire. The Order went into action to cleanse the villages of this plague. However, this meant a purge of military heroes who had fought bravely. It caused a terrible public outcry against the Order. The knighthood fell into disuse after this scandal, and it was generally believed to have been disbanded.”
“But it was not,” I guessed.
“They have existed as a secret society of extirpators of all manner of beings beyond the realm of mortal justice who would harm men’s bodies, and souls. They are not Dhampir,
not merely hunters, but guardians and warriors against creatures you or I could never imagine, much less face. Much less fight, for it requires great spiritual strength as well as physical skill.” His face was chillingly stony, his eyes flat. I guessed he knew far more particulars than he was sharing. I was grateful for his discretion. I was already too burdened to be curious.
“Then Father Luke was correct,” I said to Fox. “He is indeed well equipped to battle Marius.”
But Fox was still grim. “He is entrusted with the guardianship of the thing imprisoned on The Sanctuary, not destroying Marius.”
Dom Beauclaire agreed. “The Order is strict, specific, and very careful in the priests they select. These are not shepherds. These are warriors prepared to kill for duty.” Dom Beauclaire wagged his bent finger and peered at us intently. “Have a care with this priest. His allegiance to his cause will be absolute. And he will be ready to do whatever his duty demands to see the good of the world protected.”
“But his goal is ours,” I protested. I noticed how weak I sounded, and realized I voiced more of a wish than a certainty.
“Do not be so certain. He has a strong sense of purpose,
oui?
And it is not concerned with Marius, or your little Henrietta. His duty is to the Church, and his sacred mission.”
I felt deflated. Much as I would like to believe otherwise, it seemed Father Luke could prove dangerous, if he thought our cause endangered his. I turned to Fox. “His path is likely to cross ours in any event. We have no choice but to include him.”
“Agreed. We keep him close. But we dare not trust him.”
Our mistake came to me in the quiet of my room. I cannot say what triggered it, or for how long all that figured behind the
moment of epiphany had been lying dormant in my brain. I know Father Luke and his secret order of knights were much on my mind. I kept thinking of that painting, the one of Saint Michael, and how the serpent Satan had gnashed his gleaming fangs in frustration at his victorious foe. I had seen fangs like that with my own eyes, snapping maliciously for my blood.
And serpents were signs of eternal life, but they were also symbols of evil. The eternal vampire, foul creature, vanquished by sainted knight or archangel. Michael. George.
And the Great Stone Serpent, made of stone and more ancient than history itself, marking the land where forces raged, bringing life and death together.
And the season of spring. Renewal and Life, with one small festival of evil. Beltane, or May Day…
No,
I thought. My heart began to pound, heralding the insight before it resolved into clarity.
Not
May Day. Somehow, I suddenly knew.
Mr. Hess had spoken of the importance of the Eve of Saint George, a feast of evil to rival All Hallows’ Eve. Both holy days were preceded by an evening of revelry of wickedness that was allowed to reign briefly free and strong.
’Twas the month before the month of May.
Coleridge’s opening line from the eerie, haunting tale of poor, ill-fated Christabel, who was visited by the evil Geraldine in a midnight garden and destroyed…
I gasped as it came to me. My eyes shot wide and stared unseeing. The high unholy day which Marius awaited was the Eve of Saint George. April 22—not even so much as a fortnight away. And I was here, in France! It would take much of that time just to travel all the way back to England.
I flew down the ancient corridors of the château. As for
tune would have it, I found Alliot quickly. “Take me to Mr. Fox’s chamber,” I instructed. “And summon Dom Beauclaire at once.”
The room given to Mr. Fox was not far. When I pounded insistently on his door, he readily answered, his shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was wet and he was holding a damp flannel square which dripped unheedingly upon the floor. The sight of him in such a state of dishabille threw me into a deep flush, but I pushed past into his room and declared, “It is not Beltane, Valerian! Marius shall act on April 22, the Eve of Saint George. A good eight days earlier than we thought!”
He caught my hand, making me stop and face him. His touch was cool and damp, and I was aware how the spicy scent of his soap tingled in my nostrils. We stood uncomfortably close. His dark eyes bored into mine as he assimilated my announcement.
I said quietly, “We’ve nearly run out of time already.”
Dom Beauclaire appeared, supported by Alliot on one side and his battered cane on the other. I repeated what I’d told Fox. “I must return to England,” I told him. “We have only twelve days to prepare. I will leave for Calais in the morning with Mr. Fox and look for a ship.”
His old eyes glittered and he shook his head.
“Non,”
he barked, the sound abrupt and distinctly French. “You are not ready.”
His face was stern, wearing its age with a steely dignity that was hard to refuse. In all of our time together, I had never seen him anything less than agreeable, but his proud temper asserted itself now. “You are the guardian of more than the child you love. All children need you. The world needs you, Madame
Andrews. You must be certain you have done all you can to be ready. Take more time with me.”
He was right—had I not said this very thing so many times? I was not ready. But that no longer mattered.
“I have only twelve days,” I said, and that, really, was the end of it.
W
e found a ship leaving from Boulogne-sur-Mer. Fox let a room at an inn, where we could wait out the hour until it would be ready. I sank into a dusty chair, exhausted from our swift flight from Amiens. Fox, however, was restless. He placed his bag on the table and began to unpack it, inspecting the equipment assembled within.
I watched silently as he lifted a bundle of stakes, each honed to a deadly point. He weighed each in his hand as he evaluated its worth. Eight in all. A short-handled ax followed, then a cloth-wrapped item I could see, from the way the folds covered it, was a large cross. A silver vial. Holy water, I assumed.
The muscles of his shoulders flexed as he heaved a large, heavy, flat-headed mallet out onto the table. A dance of nerves
tickled my back as I imagined him swinging it high, then bringing it down to bear on one of the stakes he’d made to drive it through the corpse. I closed my eyes for a moment against the reminder of our grisly purpose.
When I opened them, I found him looking at me. “I am near madness with worry for Henrietta,” I said, shaking my head to throw off my dark imaginings. “We must find a way to make certain she is kept safe through all of this. We must find a way to get to her, though I do not know how. Neither Mary nor Roger will allow it.”
He was tense, and although he nodded, I felt the stab of doubt. Would he protect the child at all costs, or was it only killing Marius that meant anything to him? Just as Dom Beauclaire warned us not to underestimate Father Luke, I must not make a similar mistake with Fox.
“We should take her away, kidnap her if we must,” I pressed.
Mr. Fox shook his head, firmly but with sympathy. “He will find her, Emma. He has bound her to him, though I know he has not defiled her, for he needs her pure. But he will use her when the time comes. She is not safe, not anywhere.”
The ship Mr. Fox found for us was old, the mates dodgy, and the captain would have—I had no doubt—tossed us overboard if he thought there was any profit in it. But we had nothing much for either captain or crew to covet, and that was our protection. That and the steely glint in Mr. Fox’s eye which brooked no nonsense, and the undercurrent of danger that seemed to emanate from his very pores.