Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (10 page)
“Can I have both Grendl and the camera? You’re not the only one who wants to create an effect.”
Columbine snapped her fingers, raising a glimmer of
dull comprehension in the thrall. “Go to her.”
dull comprehension in the thrall. “Go to her.”
As the dazed and round-shouldered servant shuffled drably away, Columbine realized the thought of going to all this trouble to captivate Victor should logically have made her very angry, but she found she was actually quite enjoying herself. They would weave their spell, and, once he fell under it, they’d ride him hard and put him away still sweating.
Initially Renquist paid little attention to the highway landscape through which the white limousine was passing. The expressways out of all major cities looked the same: stark blue-white lighting, blue or green exit signs with bold white lettering, lane reflectors that seemed to go on forever, neon advertising signs with familiar international logos. Essentially he could have been anywhere, Paris, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, or Newark—the minor local differences were too few to distinguish one twenty-first century conurbation from another. He passed the time by investigating the limousine’s interior. In the small refrigerator of the mobile bar, he discovered, amid the beer, Coca-Cola, juices, and inevitable variety of mineral waters, a bottle of frozen Grey Goose vodka. Frozen vodka was an odd weakness of Renquist’s, acquired in Saint Petersburg just before the fall of the Romanovs, and maintained for the past century. Although the alcohol had no real effect on his nosferatu metabolism, he enjoyed the shock of the chill raw spirit hitting the back of his throat and the distinct burn as it was absorbed into his system. Since he had time to kill, he selected one of the thoughtfully provided chilled glasses, filled it, and then downed the double shot in one swallow.
“Aaah.”
Renquist could think of worse ways to commence an adventure. He repeated the ritual with the vodka and felt very much at ease with the immediate world. Whatever the future might bring, he was very content in the now.
Content enough, in fact, finally to turn his attention to the passing terrain beyond the car’s windows. The suburban sprawl had diminished, and Renquist found he was looking at trees and fields, farm buildings, and scattered country houses, substantial within their own grounds. England had always impressed him with its neatly organized geography. He supposed it was inevitable. Social leveling, hastened ironically by the Black Death in the fourteenth century and the subsequent Peasants’ Revolt, had begun far earlier in Britain than anywhere else in Europe, and to Renquist this was reflected in the very hedgerows and their smug containment of nature. The seeming confidence that all would endure, despite the global signs dictating otherwise; the romantic vision of country lanes and gathering lilacs, the surety that there would “always be an England,” was maybe only possible to an island people who had once dominated half the world but had then been forced to relinquish their massive empire and sink into the quiet and somewhat grumpy nostalgia of a retired superpower.
Content enough, in fact, finally to turn his attention to the passing terrain beyond the car’s windows. The suburban sprawl had diminished, and Renquist found he was looking at trees and fields, farm buildings, and scattered country houses, substantial within their own grounds. England had always impressed him with its neatly organized geography. He supposed it was inevitable. Social leveling, hastened ironically by the Black Death in the fourteenth century and the subsequent Peasants’ Revolt, had begun far earlier in Britain than anywhere else in Europe, and to Renquist this was reflected in the very hedgerows and their smug containment of nature. The seeming confidence that all would endure, despite the global signs dictating otherwise; the romantic vision of country lanes and gathering lilacs, the surety that there would “always be an England,” was maybe only possible to an island people who had once dominated half the world but had then been forced to relinquish their massive empire and sink into the quiet and somewhat grumpy nostalgia of a retired superpower.
Through all Renquist’s long existence, England had somehow managed to keep its equilibrium. Crown, Church, nobility, and later Parliament had maintained a stability in which the opposing tensions actually remained in balance for most of the time. The king was restrained by the barons; the Church was kept down by the king but ensured that the barons never grew too powerful. Democracy also came early and cost Charles I his head, but, although it spared the entire aristocracy, it served to keep them circumspectly in line, and guaranteed, although they might throw up the odd Hellfire Club, Britain could never spawn an Elizabeth Bathory, a Vlad Tepes, a Gilles de Rais, or an Ivan the Terrible. With such comparative equanimity at home, the Brits could sail off in their ships, go about their legalized piracy and, with the flags flying and the old trade plying, rob the rest of the world blind in the name of Monarch and Empire. Should a potential psychotic aristo arise
with a serious case of lustmord, he or she could be shipped off to a colony to take it out on the natives. England evolved a power structure that survived by shunning extremes. The worst crime was, according to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, “doing it in the street and frightening the horses.” That was why they were still pissed that no one had caught Jack the Ripper. He had done it in the street and frightened the floozies.
with a serious case of lustmord, he or she could be shipped off to a colony to take it out on the natives. England evolved a power structure that survived by shunning extremes. The worst crime was, according to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, “doing it in the street and frightening the horses.” That was why they were still pissed that no one had caught Jack the Ripper. He had done it in the street and frightened the floozies.
Unfortunately, in all of those ages of British global wheeling and dealing, the Church of England—what Americans called Episcopalian—acquired too firm a grip on the pagan and the paranormal. While maybe not going to the extremes of their Protestant brethren in Germany and the Low Countries, or the Catholic Inquisition in Spain and France, as late as the 1600s, human superstition had been ruthlessly policed in rural England by sadistic witchfinders like Matthew Hopkins, who had, during his mobile puritan excess of hanging and butchery in the wake of the civil war between Cavaliers and Roundheads, destroyed several dozen genuine nosferatu without actually knowing it. The Church hadn’t had it all its own way, however. As the empire had grown, even an island nation found it increasingly difficult to exclude the odd and the unnatural. Opium and sinister, Kali-worshipping, thuggee-committing stranglers slipped in from India via the docks of Liverpool and Limehouse, hashish and syphilis arrived from the Middle East, and a few groundbreaking nosferatu found natural cover among the fops, cultivated eccentrics, and intelligentsia of the Age of Reason, when Newtonian physics went hand in hand with the poetry of the Romantics and the secret machinations of the Illuminati. These bloodthirsty few had determinedly remained a powerful and exclusive clique, discouraging the fanged and ragtag migrants from eastern Europe. The English undead rarely frightened the horses, or the English humans, who couldn’t quite bring themselves to seriously believe nosferatu really existed. Matters had comfortably remained that way
right to the present day, although it would seem Columbine and her group had encountered trouble, were maybe at risk of detection, and, like so many Anglos before them, they looked to the USA for help.
right to the present day, although it would seem Columbine and her group had encountered trouble, were maybe at risk of detection, and, like so many Anglos before them, they looked to the USA for help.
As the route he took in bringing his American help diminished from a motorway to a simple winding blacktop, memories expanded in Renquist’s consciousness in inverse proportion to the width of the carriageway. He had actually encountered Ravenkeep Priory twice before. The most recent occasion had been during World War II, when Duke de Richleau and his brilliantly demented team of specialists in the paranormal had waged rather successful occult warfare against Adolf Hitler. Renquist had been assigned by a cabal of even more distinguished nosferatu than himself to maintain covert observation on de Richleau, a mission that had been completely unknown to Columbine, cohabiting at the time with this rarefied task force. Although Renquist and his undead overlords had been in basic sympathy with the British battle against the Nazis, they had always considered de Richleau one of the most dangerous humans ever to walk the day. In his obscure but extensive field, the Duke appeared to know everything. He was certainly well aware of the existence of the nosferatu and was reputed to have a fairly comprehensive knowledge of their customs, habits, and at least some of their powers and limitations. Rumors even claimed he was able to pinpoint the Residences of a number of the major clans and colonies.
The surprise was that de Richleau had never acted on this information either for good or ill. He apparently failed to share most humans’ extreme moral revulsion at the idea of blood-drinking night dwellers, and he simply accepted the undead as a fact of life, if such a semantic contradiction was indeed possible. He had never been tempted by the quasi-heroic role of vampire-hunter, but at the same time, he had never tried, as some had, to form an alliance between humans and nosferatu. Whether this
was because he knew the undead were watching him or he simply thought in such abstract and altruistic terms that it never occurred to him was a matter of debate, but Renquist had always expected, sooner or later, de Richleau would somehow organize himself through the Change and seize his immortality. He would have welcomed the kinship of such a mind, but de Richleau never came across. He had staunchly retained his humanity and died in 1997 at the venerable age of ninety-three.
was because he knew the undead were watching him or he simply thought in such abstract and altruistic terms that it never occurred to him was a matter of debate, but Renquist had always expected, sooner or later, de Richleau would somehow organize himself through the Change and seize his immortality. He would have welcomed the kinship of such a mind, but de Richleau never came across. He had staunchly retained his humanity and died in 1997 at the venerable age of ninety-three.
The first time Renquist had heard of Ravenkeep, it had yet to become a Priory. When still a hired sword-in-the-night, he had been offered hard human gold for the murder of Jerome le Corbeau, who had, by all accounts except his own, embezzled the collective ransom money for a number of Crusaders languishing in various dungeons and strongholds en route to the Holy Land. Renquist had even gone so far as to raise a band of human cutthroats to do the deed only to have the slaying canceled at the last minute. The worthless le Corbeau was so blighted with pox, he was already three parts insane and not expected to live for more than a few months, anyway. Those who had previously wanted him killed were more than happy to see him survive and suffer as physicians bled him, lanced his sores, and treated him with doses of arsenic and mercury.
Renquist had sunk so deep into remembrance he was actually a little startled when the driver lowered the partition and asked him for directions. “Where to now, sir? I think we’re pretty close, but I’m not clear what to do at this crossroads.”
Renquist leaned forward and pointed. “Go left, where it says Coldharbour Lane.”
“Right you are, sir.”
The limousine eased its way into the lefthand turn. On these narrow country lanes, the vehicle was proving even more ridiculous, seriously hampered by its excessive length, and Renquist couldn’t avoid a sense of absurdity to be driving in such garishly flamboyant a conveyance
through the open fields with their containing hedgerows and the small clusters of woodland with overhanging branches that turned the byways into leafy arboreal tunnels. He was also beginning to recognize sections of the landscape and was aware they were nearing Ravenkeep. The awareness, however, didn’t stop him from failing to spot the gates to the estate until they were right on top of them. He quickly leaned forward and lowered the partition. “Stop. That was the place.”
through the open fields with their containing hedgerows and the small clusters of woodland with overhanging branches that turned the byways into leafy arboreal tunnels. He was also beginning to recognize sections of the landscape and was aware they were nearing Ravenkeep. The awareness, however, didn’t stop him from failing to spot the gates to the estate until they were right on top of them. He quickly leaned forward and lowered the partition. “Stop. That was the place.”
The time lag of instruction and reaction took the limo maybe fifty or so yards past the driveway before the driver brought it to a halt. He put the car in reverse and began to back up, but Renquist quickly stopped him. “Just pull over and park.”
“I’ll be all but blocking the road, sir.”
“Put your flashers on, and don’t worry about it. I doubt there will be any traffic.”
The chauffeur did as he was told. “Whatever you say, sir.”
The chauffeur was beginning to wonder if his passenger was a little crazy. Renquist decided the man needed at least a minimal explanation. “There’s no cause for alarm. I’m quite sane. I just want to spring a little surprise on my friends.”
Renquist observed a chill pass through the driver’s aura as he momentarily wondered if his mind had been read but then dismissed the idea as impossible. Renquist smiled slightly and continued with his instructions. “I want you to remain here for twenty minutes, then drive up to the house and drop off my bags. I imagine a servant will be there to collect them.”
“And you won’t need me after that.”
“I won’t need you after that.”
Renquist signed for the limousine and then handed the driver five twenty-pound notes. “Have a safe return journey.”
“Thank you, sir.” He pocketed the gratuity, reflecting
that Renquist tipped more like a gangster than any actor or politician. “Thank you very much.”
that Renquist tipped more like a gangster than any actor or politician. “Thank you very much.”
The chauffeur hesitated for a moment as though he wanted to say something else. Renquist raised an eyebrow, although he already knew what troubled the man. “Is there a problem?”
“Well …”
“Yes?”
“Are there likely to be dogs, sir?”
“Dogs?”
“Guard dogs or the like?”
The man had a phobia of large dogs. Understandable insomuch as the driver, at around age ten, had been mauled by a rottweiler and bore permanent scars on his right thigh.
“No, my friend, no dogs.” Renquist was sorely tempted to tell the man that much worse dangers lurked at the end of the driveway, but by necessity, he restrained the desire to shock. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Renquist left the car and walked toward the gates, swinging his silver-topped cane. The imposing wrought-iron gates, with their Victorian curlicues and threatening rows of spikes, stood open wide. He imagined they were normally kept closed and had been specifically opened in anticipation of his arrival. The calm assurance that he would drive up to the house like any mundane guest had triggered the idea of taking Columbine and her friends by surprise. A sudden flash of confusion would improve his chance of learning more of the females’ real motives than if he behaved according to easy prediction. He didn’t expect a surprise entrance with a few psychic fireworks to take them completely off guard, but he might find that guard lowered at least in some measure. He glanced up at the tall granite columns that supported the gates and noted with a certain irrational satisfaction that each was still topped with a large cast-iron raven.
During the Second World War, many such decorations had been removed and melted down to aid the war effort. Seemingly, the ravens, a Victorian interpretation of the ancient arms of the le Corbeau family, had been spared. A small gatekeeper’s lodge stood just inside the gateway, but it was empty and all but derelict, with blind windows and a look of disuse. In complete contrast, light showed all over the great architecturally confused pile that was Ravenkeep itself. For a stately home inhabited by the undead, it seemed positively festive and inviting.
During the Second World War, many such decorations had been removed and melted down to aid the war effort. Seemingly, the ravens, a Victorian interpretation of the ancient arms of the le Corbeau family, had been spared. A small gatekeeper’s lodge stood just inside the gateway, but it was empty and all but derelict, with blind windows and a look of disuse. In complete contrast, light showed all over the great architecturally confused pile that was Ravenkeep itself. For a stately home inhabited by the undead, it seemed positively festive and inviting.
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