Incarnation (32 page)

CHAPTER 24

M
arco was a step ahead of me, having already determined the one location where we could hope to hold out against the attack that was bound to come.

“The members were up in arms after the Watchers’ intrusion the other day,” he explained as we made haste in the hackney toward the headquarters of the Golden Dawn. “Steps have been taken to assure that nothing of the sort can ever happen again.”

I did not ask what sort of measures were available to a group that had, as Marco mentioned earlier, a bit of a problem with demons but nothing that couldn’t be handled. We reached the society’s townhouse in Mayfair to find the front door barred. A dour-faced fellow with a steely glint in his eye answered the pealing bell. Recognizing Marco and Stoker, he stood aside at once to allow us to enter. Apparently, not even the presence of an unconscious form in exceedingly tattered evening clothes and a young woman of dubious lineage could impinge on the privileges of membership.

“Make haste,” he directed. “All sorts of riffraff in the streets this morning.”

We had seen that for ourselves during the drive from
Bethlem. The Watchers were out in even greater force than usual, but they were the least of it. From the nooks and crannies of the less reputable parts of London, a new force had emerged. Hale and hearty young men all dressed alike in brown shirts and trousers, sporting armbands emblazoned with the crest of St. George, the patron saint of England, were armed with truncheons that they swung at arm’s length as they marched. We had encountered them as we crossed Blackfriar’s Bridge and then again along the Embankment. They appeared to be concentrating toward the Houses of Parliament near Westminster.

“Any idea who that lot are?” Marco asked the man as together they carried Mordred into the library.

“The Brownshirts? Hard to say, they seem to have come out of nowhere, but they’re obviously organized. Likely as not one faction or another in the government is behind them.” Glancing down at his burden, he added, “I say, is this—?”

Marco nodded curtly. “If you would be so kind as to alert the members who are here. Obviously, precautions will have to be taken while he is in residence.”

I had hurried ahead to clear off the large table in the library not far from the portrait of Dr. Dee. Once Mordred was laid upon it, the man hurried off to inform the others.

“I don’t imagine that we’ll be thanked for coming here,” I said.

Stoker gave a low snort. His color was high and he appeared agitated, as well he might given the circumstances, but he spoke calmly enough. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to the society since Flinders Petrie’s unfortunate run-in with the Great Sphinx. Besides, no one is more aware of the role Mordred has played in the history of our realm than our own members. They have great respect for him.”

His words were shortly proven true as a procession of gentlemen of varying ages and dress, some considerably more exotic than the rest, appeared offering casks of esoteric medicines and other items they hoped would be useful. Marco greeted them all at the entrance to the library and relieved them of their burdens with thanks but admitted no one. Several craned their necks trying to observe the figure stretched out on the table, only to withdraw grudgingly as Marco shut the door on them.

Meanwhile, I went to work on Mordred. Having cut away most of his clothing, I perceived that his injuries were even more extensive than I had realized. Given their severity, it was amazing that even a vampire capable of immortal life had survived them. His abused flesh was pulled tautly over his bones, giving him an almost skeletal appearance. Under normal conditions, he would have been pale, but the intensity of his pallor made him appear as though carved from a thin layer of delicate stone that could dissolve into dust at any moment. His eyes were closed, sparing me their intensity, but as I watched, I saw movement beneath the lids.

Mordred, it seemed, was dreaming. I could only hope that his mind had escaped to some far more pleasant realm and that it would remain there while I did what was necessary.

Having secured the shutters across the library windows and drawn the draperies closed, Stoker came to assist me. He shook his head in dismay. “Sections of his skin have been cut away down to the underlying muscle. What possible purpose could that have served?”

Marco had paused at the door for a quiet discussion with several of the members, all notable for their military bearing. From what little I was able to overhear, the defense of the
Golden Dawn headquarters was well in hand. Now he joined us and stared down at Mordred grimly.

“De Vere claims to be a scientist. He regards the collection and analysis of specimens as essential to his studies on cellular structure.”

“Is this what you were referring to when you suggested that he went too far in his methods?” I was well aware that scientists commonly used dissection as a means of collecting specimens, but not, as far as I knew, from living subjects. That the argument can be made that Mordred was not strictly speaking “alive” struck me then and still does as moot. We are all of us—vampires and humans alike—sentient, self-aware beings. We hope, dream, regret, yearn, and engage in all sorts of behavior good and bad that reveals the inner workings of our spirits. Nothing more than that should be needed to qualify as alive. I was never more convinced of that than in the presence of de Vere’s handiwork.

“He is a sadist,” Marco said bluntly. “It is astonishing that Mordred managed to survive such captivity.”

“His survival is not yet assured,” I said. “If he were stronger, I would be more confident of his ability to heal himself, but in his present state—” I broke off as Marco opened one of the casks and drew a small vial from it.

“Try this. It contains some of the same ingredients as the tea you sipped but in considerably more potent form. From what I understand, vampires use it on those rare occasions when they suffer injury severe enough to concern them.”

“As from Protectors?” I asked. The glowing heart of a vampire was tucked discreetly beneath his shirt but I was well aware of its presence all the same.

Marco shrugged. “It happens. At any rate, we have nothing
else that is likely to help.” To my surprise, he touched my hand lightly. For a moment, our eyes met. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded even though I was not at all certain what he was apologizing for. The lack of other medicines, the situation itself, or the gulf between us that had never seemed so large as at that moment when we both stood beside the vampire king struggling to preserve his existence.

The moment passed. I resumed my task, hoping against hope that the balm fragrant with bergamot, anise, fennel, and other substances that I could not identify would be of some actual help. When I was done, I drew a blanket over Mordred and sat down to wait. There was nothing else that I or any of us could do. Marco left briefly and returned with a tray of sandwiches, as well as tea for himself and Stoker. I had rejected any sustenance, my appetite having fled entirely.

A short time later, we heard banging at the front door and a shouted demand for admittance. Stoker peered out through a chink in the shutters and reported that the Watchers had arrived in force. A member of the society shouted down from his post on the roof that they would withdraw at once or the consequences be on their heads. I expected them to storm the building and perhaps they would have done so if not for the sudden, acrid smoke that appeared at their feet and billowed upward to engulf them. Hacking coughs and cries of pain replaced threats as the Watchers quickly withdrew.

The Brownshirts were next. They came—again according to Stoker—with goggles over their eyes and bandanas tied around their noses and mouths but to no avail. They were shortly on the run from the acrid smoke that made eyes tear and breathing next to impossible.

“They’ll be back,” Marco said. “The military has been producing gas masks for just this sort of contingency.”

I suppose it was a measure of my lingering innocence that I had difficulty understanding what he meant. Gas was to be a weapon and people would have to wear masks to protect themselves from it? Truly, man’s genius for new and ever more creative ways to kill one another knows no bounds.

“Perhaps we should think about getting Mordred out of here before then,” Stoker suggested.

I shook my head. “He is far too weak and besides, where would we go? Our only real hope is for him to recover quickly. Once he has regained at least some semblance of his power, those who are so eager for war will have to think twice.”

“That is to be hoped,” Marco agreed. We were seated next to each other on a settee near the table where we could both keep watch over Mordred. Once again, he reached over and took my hand in his. His skin was warm, his touch undeniably arousing yet also with an element of comfort that I could not help but embrace. Neither of us spoke but words were unnecessary. We both knew that the chances of Mordred being restored to himself anytime soon—or at all—remained slim.

Moreover, in a few hours it would be dark. The threats we had faced from the Watchers and the Brownshirts would be as nothing once Lady Blanche and her legions began to stir.

“We have to do something,” Stoker protested.

I agreed with him but I had no idea how to proceed until suddenly a thought came to me. Rising, I walked to the table where Mordred lay. Perhaps it was my imagination, but his color appeared a little more naturally pale and less like the
pallor of extinction. Moreover, he appeared to no longer be in pain but instead seemed to be resting peacefully.

Given enough time, he might recover. Unfortunately, we could not wait. Time was of the essence, even as it had been when I lingered in the grave from which Mordred had called me.

Despite my love of opera, I had no particular talent for music. Amanda was the gifted one. But I could still try. Hesitantly at first but with swiftly growing certainty, I began to sing.

Wouldst die then? ah me! consent to live.
Live, of all my love assured;
The keenest pangs that death can give
For thee have I endured.

The first notes were faint and uncertain but I steeled my resolve and tried again with somewhat better results, well enough at least not to set dogs howling. All the same, Stoker started in surprise. He moved toward me, but Marco held out a hand to stop him. I closed my eyes, willing the library to fall away and saw before me once again the stage at the Royal Opera House. It was a trick of memory, of course, nothing more, but just then it was as real as it had been when Mordred used the same artifice to draw me from the grave. He was not there yet but he would be soon if I could not draw him forth, too.

From my hand, thou warrior glorious,
Take thy standard aye victorious,
Let it ever lead the way
For thy opponent’s overthrow.

My familiarity with the libretto was spotty, consisting mainly of the passages I found the most moving. As for my vocal range . . . the less said the better. But just when I thought the whole exercise was folly, a finger on Mordred’s right hand twitched. Only that, a finger and nothing more, yet it was enough. I pressed on, ready to sing the whole damn opera if that was what it took. And when I finished with Verdi’s
Aïda,
I was prepared to launch full bore into Wagner’s
Götterdämmerung.
If it took Ragnarök and the final battle of the Norse gods to rally Mordred to his duty, so be it.

Fortunately, I was spared any such extreme measures. Hard on the twitch of his finger, the king of the vampires opened first one eye and then the other. Looking into mine, he said, “Who . . . ?”

I leaned forward, eager to tell him whatever he wanted to know. Who had rescued him from de Vere. Who would stand by his side as he reclaimed his throne. After that, we could talk about what he had done to me and why but for the moment, nothing mattered except—

“Who gave you the idea that you could sing?”

A short, surprised laugh broke from Marco. To give him credit, he cut it off quickly, but not before I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing in turn. For his part, Stoker stared at us all in bewilderment, as well he might have for we were far from any laughing matter. Yet there was relief in levity, however brief.

“My sister,” I said, “but she loves me so I believe her opinion is less than impartial.”