The Dark Arts of Blood (9 page)

Emil stared. Had Mikhail donned his stage costume in order to play some mad practical joke? No – Mikhail was in his bunk, with more sense than to risk such a prank. What maniac
would
take the costume from its trunk in the cargo hold in order to parade around in this tempest?

No one.

The moment was like the trance he’d experienced on stage, magnified tenfold. He’d stepped into a shadow world full of incomprehensible horrors. Telling himself that this must be an illusion did not work. There was no sense to be made of this. Reality itself changed, lifting a scrim to reveal a sinister dimension no mortal should ever see.

The figure appeared dry, unaffected by water or wind. It moved without effort as if gliding across a flat stage – or like a character on film. A ghost, then… yet King Kastchei looked as solid as had Mikhail in the role. And he moved with purpose.

In his deranged state, Emil was convinced that Kastchei was pursuing the Firebird herself. He was hunting Violette.

“No,” Emil gasped. Sea-water whipped into his face. He wiped his eyes, panting. “Hey, you! Wait!”

He released his death grip on the rail and started across the treacherous, plummeting deck. With every step he skidded and swayed. Twice he fell to his hands and knees. Kastchei drifted on, oblivious to him. Fire appeared to smoulder dark red within the huge bone skull. Then the sorcerer stopped, confronted by a small black figure – Violette?

Emil could barely see through the gusts of rain and spray, couldn’t tell if his own eyes were deceiving him, but the two appeared to be fighting.

Both gripped the staff two-handed, wrestling each other for possession. He struggled towards them, fell as the deck leaned, regained his feet. Panting for breath, he pushed wet hair out of his eyes and saw them with brief but absolute clarity.

The sorcerer towered over the small dancer. The long bone staff leaned at an angle between them as they both held on tight, Violette trying to seize the weapon – or to hold him back. An aura shone around them, the red of hot iron. How could she possibly match Kastchei’s strength? Although the sorcerer couldn’t break her hold, he was forcing her back towards the ship’s rail. She dealt a kick to the side of his knee and he staggered, only to straighten up again and roar his anger.

Violette roared back. No – the gale itself sounded full of human voices. Kastchei twisted the staff, trying to throw her off balance. She dug in, her feet in a wide, stable stance, but he raised the staff higher and began to bend her backwards with such power that her body curved like a taut bow.

“No!” Emil yelled, his voice carried away by the gale. “Take your hands off her!”

Regaining his poise, he charged at them. As he ran, the liner tilted and plunged down a cliff-wall of water, flinging him towards the far rail. His momentum carried him at uncontrollable speed. No chance to save himself. The rail whacked hard across his stomach and he tipped straight over, beyond the point of no return. The ocean roiled below, a furious black chasm yawning to swallow him…

Then a pair of small, strong hands caught him.

One gloved hand grabbed his shirt, the other his arm. Helpless, he dangled – then felt himself being yanked back over the rail. He landed hard. Sprawling on the wet planks, he coughed and swore, shaking, nearly convulsing with shock. Then the same hands pulled him upright, hefted him to a bench, and sat him down.

Violette.

No one else was there. No mysterious skull figure, no sign that she’d been assaulted, nothing. Yet she was real enough. And she had rescued him.

He couldn’t speak. Violette’s face was even paler than normal, glowing with its own fragile light. Her hat and coat were drenched. She sat beside him, staring hard into his eyes. She looked both furious and relieved – the look a mother might have for a child who’d hurt himself through disobedience.

For long minutes they remained there, clinging to the bench as the liner ploughed on through the storm. He felt they were alone on a ghost-ship. Eventually Violette spoke.

“Idiot. Emil, what on earth are you doing outside in this?”

He thought,
I could ask the same
, but no words would come out.

“I know some travellers prefer to be on deck, however rough the waves,” she said. “It eases sea-sickness, even at the risk of pneumonia or falling overboard. Is that why?”

“I’m not sea-sick, madame,” he managed to say. “I… I was looking for you.”

“Why? You must have known I was in my cabin, as you should have been.”

“But clearly you were not. I saw…”

“What?”

“I thought I saw someone attacking you.”

She went quiet for a few seconds. “Why would anyone attack me? I think the storm made you see things. The rational part of the brain no longer works in such conditions. It’s understandable.”

“But that doesn’t answer what
you
are doing on deck in this weather, madame.”

“Emil, I asked first.”

He clenched his teeth, caught between the urge to pour out his emotions and the need to show her due respect.

“I can’t explain. I felt you were in danger, not just from the storm but something else. Don’t ask me how, I simply knew, and look! I was right! I was trying to find your cabin but I got lost. Then I saw a figure, exactly like Kastchei. I thought I saw him attack you… you were fighting… I don’t know what I saw.”

Violette reached out and took his hand. Her gloved hand was wet and cold, but Emil didn’t care. To feel her fingers around his palm was paradise. She was the most captivating, enigmatic creature he had ever known… and here he was, alone with her, their hands entwined.

“My dear, you are brave and impulsive. Also a little crazy, I fear. And now you know my secret.”

“Madame?”

“That I sometimes wander at night because I cannot sleep. I like to sit in the fresh air, however wild the weather, and to contemplate the ocean. The infinite, terrible forces of nature. I’ve grown rather good at sneaking out past my assistants, who in any case have learned not to stop me.”

“But the danger! The storm nearly swept me overboard. What if the same had happened to you? If you’d vanished at sea and no one ever knew what happened…”

“Imagine the headlines!” Violette laughed. “Then I truly would be a legend forever.”

“Don’t even joke about it.”

“Emil, calm yourself. This bench is out of the wind, and perfectly safe if you keep still. I’ve sat here a dozen times… and in worse conditions than this, on other voyages. Give yourself up to the elements and it’s almost soothing. Oh, but don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not,” he said.

He was rendered speechless by her admission, by the simple miracle of her presence. What a night. They sat together until the storm calmed at last and sunrise tinged the cloudy horizon with silver.

“Well, we survived,” she said softly. “We shall not speak of this again.”

“
Y
ou idiot.” Wolfgang Notz spoke softly, but his voice pierced like a needle. “Have you sobered up yet?”

Bruno brought the motorcycle to a halt amid the parked vehicles in front of the house. The huge structure was luminous in the dawn.
Bergwerkstatt
, read the modest nameplate. Mountain workshop. As Bruno booted down the kickstand, Wolfgang dismounted behind him with a grunt of pain. Bruno was not the one who’d fallen from the chalet balcony, but he felt as if he had. He slumped forward, his forehead resting on the handlebars. Every sinew hurt, every bone felt bruised. His head pounded in time with the raw ache in his throat.

It was a miracle Wolfgang had escaped with his life. Only the steep, peaty slope of the hillside had eased his fall. Then Bruno had been forced to take the motorcycle’s controls for their return journey, despite being in no fit state to do so. He’d nearly killed them again, skidding on the perilous mountain roads. They’d taken hours to reach home.

“Get off,” snapped Wolfgang, glaring at him. “I risked my life to save your skin. I am the one with cracked ribs and my throat nearly torn out. And you – you have a mere hangover? Feeling sorry for yourself?
Get off
.”

Bruno obeyed, cursing himself for drinking so much the previous night. One more beer always seemed a marvellous idea at the time… but his drunken stupidity had led him to proposition a strange girl in the street, and set in motion all that followed.

“They bit me too,” he growled. “Her and the other
strigoi
.”

He staggered. Suddenly his companion had him round the throat, pressing him into the canvas side of a truck.

“Idiot,” Wolfgang repeated. “You must never carry your
sikin
around in public. You never take it from the cabinet, let alone from these premises. You know that – so what were you thinking? That you’d use it to intimidate someone in a drunken brawl? Or to impress a female with your… weapon? What?”

Wolfgang released his grip. Rubbing his bruised voice box, Bruno choked on the words. “Maybe. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Very little, it seems. Herr Reiniger
must
be able to trust his inner circle. Don’t you know how privileged we are? You’ve broken that trust.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What punishment do you think you deserve? Expulsion?” Wolfgang’s voice was low and restrained, thick with exasperation, but Bruno didn’t fear him. Godric Reiniger was the only man he feared.

“I don’t know. I came to you and confessed: I didn’t know what else to do.”

“And I, fool that I am, did my damndest to help you. Rode fifty miles to the middle of nowhere, faced the mad vampire woman, almost died for my efforts.”

“I offered to go into that chalet!” said Bruno.

“You were falling-down drunk,” Wolfgang said with contempt. “Hadn’t you bungled enough? She
would
have killed you, you cretin. And I would have left you in the forest to rot.”

Bruno’s anger welled up. “You do understand that I stabbed her
only
because I realised she was a vampire? I was defending myself. I don’t go around randomly attacking folk in the street!”

“I believe you. Still, drink and weapons are a dangerous combination for any man.” Wolfgang’s manner eased. He was Reiniger’s deputy, but he had a human touch that their leader lacked. Bruno and everyone ran to Wolfgang with their troubles. “This was your problem, and now you have made it mine. Thank you for that.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We shall have to face Godric and tell him the truth.”

“What will he do to us?”

“That’s up to him.” Wolfgang’s cheeks lost colour. He pushed a hand over his cropped hair. “We need to frame this in a more positive light. Yes, we lost the knife, but think:
we identified actual vampires.
Is that not the most astounding aspect of this?”

“If you say so.” Bruno went hot with delayed shock. Wolfgang was right.

“It’s lucky the other two, the blond boys, weren’t in the chalet, since I never stopped to wonder how I’d fight three of them.”

“Is this news going to please him?”

“I hope so.” Wolfgang dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “God knows what we’ll do with you, Bruno. Keep off the beer. Come on, let’s clean up, have breakfast before we face the storm. We’ll have to hope Herr Reiniger’s feeling merciful.”

The front door opened, and a slim young woman stood in silhouette against the light from inside. “Is someone out there? Wolfgang?”

“Yes, it’s me, Fräulein Temple.”

“Is something wrong? What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Bruno got into a little fight, that’s all. We’re coming in now. Ask Gudrun to make some coffee, would you, please? Black and strong.”

* * *

Godric stood in the centre of his office with folded arms, listening as Bruno and Wolfgang stuttered out their story. Their muddled shock and sheer amazement at meeting an actual vampire irritated him. They were like naughty schoolboys, frightened by a ghost.

His fury was cold and rigidly suppressed, but it ran as deep as mountain roots. Had there been a knife missing from the cabinet, apart from his own?
I should have looked more carefully
, he thought,
but I did not think I needed to.

After that, the female
strigoi
had distracted him.

Bruno was quaking at Wolfgang’s side. He looked ready to pass out or fling himself through a window rather than face another moment of Reiniger’s arctic disapproval.

“So you took the cabinet key from my office and stole the
sikin
?”

“No, sir,” Bruno answered, sweating. “I’m sorry. I only pretended to put it back after the last
Eidgenossen
gathering.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His chin rose with defiance. “It’s a beautiful weapon. And after all, it’s
mine
. I like the feeling of power when I carry it. I have no better excuse.”

“It’s allocated for your use during meetings,” said Godric. “That does not make it
yours
, Bruno. You know that. Yet you took it on a boyish whim, and managed to lose it – how old are you, twenty-eight? An eight-year-old would have more common sense!”