The Parliament of Blood (30 page)

‘That depends on how events turn out in the next few hours. Now, show us the house. Tell us everything.'

Encouraged, Bradby led the way through the grass and nettles to the front door. Eddie could see now that the house was more secure than it seemed from a distance. The boards on the windows were fixed solidly in place, and the front door was in good condition. Bradby produced a key and unlocked it.

‘I'd best go first,' he said. ‘And watch out for the circle, inside the door. You don't want to go treading in that.'

Eddie pushed eagerly past George, only to find Sir William had turned and was blocking his way.

‘I think perhaps Eddie and Miss Oldfield had best wait outside,' Sir William said.

‘What? You're joking!'

Liz also started to protest, but Sir William held up his
hand. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that Bradby was not within earshot. ‘I think it would be safest. We have no idea what we shall find in there, and our guide is likely to realise at any moment that we are not who he supposes us to be.'

‘All the more reason for us all to be there, in case there's trouble,' Liz pointed out.

‘All the same, I would rather that you two were out here. Safe. If anything happens to me and George, then you at least can escape and spread the word.'

‘I agree with Sir William,' George said.

‘Yeah, well you would,' Eddie told him. ‘You ain't got to freeze to death out here and miss all the fun.'

‘Our friend was expecting someone,' Sir William pointed out. ‘As well as being safe, I'd like to think we will have sufficient warning if any more visitors arrive.'

‘All right,' Liz agreed, though she looked disappointed.

‘Well done,' George said quietly. ‘We won't be long.'

Eddie could see this was not an argument he was going to win. ‘You need us, you shout.'

‘You can count on that,' Sir William said.

Bradby was waiting in the hallway. The bare boards were cracked and rotted, and the paint on the walls was peeling away like thin paper. The faint trace of a chalk circle was just visible on the floor, close to where the stairs rose to the upper floor.

The air was heavy with damp, decay and dust. What
light there was edged past the boards over the windows so that the whole place was in twilight. Bradby took an oil lamp from a window sill and busied himself lighting it. It was clear he knew his way around.

‘What do you want to see?' he asked. ‘Even with protection, I assume you'd rather keep clear of the traps.' His lips parted in a broken-toothed smile.

‘Where would you suggest we start?' Sir William asked. ‘We want to see everything. Given,' he added quickly, ‘that the time is nearly upon us.'

‘The awakening,' Bradby said. ‘He'll be here for that. He'll want to see her rise, mark my words. Tonight.'

‘As you say.'

‘Most of them are in the cellar. You want to start there?'

‘That would seem sensible.'

There was a door under the stairs. It creaked open, showering dust. Stone steps led down into darkness. Bradby raised the oil lamp to cast as much light as possible and started slowly down the steps.

‘I don't come here much,' he confessed.

The whitewashed walls were stained and damp. By the time they reached the bottom of the steps, George could see that the lower parts of the walls were crumbling.

‘Well hidden, aren't they?' Bradby said. He held the lamp as high as he could, turning to show off the whole cellar. ‘I know there are so many houses now, but I reckon this one is one of the best. Most secret. Because of her, I've no doubt. The Coachman wouldn't take any chances.'

They were in a large area, split by several thick walls.
Some were structural, rising up through the house above. But there were others that seemed to serve no purpose. Bradby was walking slowly round, between the walls, as if he was browsing past library bookcases.

‘If you didn't know they were here …' Bradby said quietly as Sir William and George hurried after him.

‘Didn't know what were here?' George asked.

Bradby hesitated, and Sir William tensed. George sensed he had asked the wrong question.

‘Of course,' he said quickly. ‘Forgive me.'

Bradby regarded him with a moment's suspicion. Then he shrugged. He reached between George and Sir William to pat the nearest wall gently. ‘Such workmanship.' He was grinning again, and George gave a silent sigh of relief. ‘No one would ever …'

The grin was gone. He moved the lamp slowly back and forth.

‘Is there a problem?' Sir William asked.

Bradby was still moving the lamp, but George couldn't see anything of interest he might be trying to illuminate. Until the man said quietly, nervously:

‘You have shadows.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

Sir William's hand was on George's arm. ‘Vampires,' he said, ‘do not cast shadows. Therefore …' He shrugged, leaving the conclusion unspoken.

‘You're not …' Bradby stammered. ‘I shouldn't have … Oh my Lord, if he thinks I've betrayed him, betrayed his sister – the Coachman will kill me.'

With a sudden movement, he pushed past Sir William, and made for the stairs.

Instinctively George ran after him. ‘Come back!' he yelled. ‘You have to tell us what's going on here.'

Bradby started up the steps, George close behind. The man was old, and George would soon catch him. Realising this, Bradby turned, and flung the oil lamp back down the steps.

George ducked, and the lamp crashed past him, smashing on the floor close by. Darkness. Then a roar of flame as the oil spilling from the broken lamp caught fire. In the flickering light, George lunged forward and grabbed hold of Bradby's sleeve, pulling him back.

The cellar was lit in orange and red as Bradby cried out and fell backwards.

George tried to catch him, but the man continued falling, past George, down the steps. Bradby's cry of fear echoed round the enclosed space as he tumbled. Then his head cracked into the base of one of the walls. His cry stopped abruptly. A dark trickle became a thin stream, running out from under the man's body, glowing scarlet in the firelight.

Sir William was coughing from the black smoke rising from the burning oil as he joined George on the steps.

‘I doubt we'll learn much from the poor fellow now,' he said.

‘I was trying to stop him,' George said, numb with shock. ‘I never meant …'

‘I know, I know.' Sir William nodded sympathetically.
He glanced back down the stairs to where Bradby's body lay. And froze.

George too turned to look. The blood from Bradby's split head was pooling round his body. But where it touched the nearest wall, the blood was running
upwards
. A tracery of red, spreading like filaments across the whitewash.

They hurried back down into the cellar to examine the wall. As George approached, he saw that the wall was glowing red. Pulsing. The pool of blood shimmered, then it too split into rivers, running swiftly across the uneven floor towards other walls. Soon spiders' webs of red crisscrossed the walls like veins.

‘How fascinating,' Sir William said.

‘What is it?' George wondered.

‘Blood that defies gravity. Drawn, somehow, to these walls. A capillary action?'

‘But they're just walls. Aren't they?' George leaned close to examine the plaster in front of him. Behind the glow there was something, a shape, a shadow on the whitewash. Like a silhouette, light shining through from behind the shape.

‘I think perhaps we shouldn't linger,' Sir William said.

But George was intent on the shape on the wall. Or
in
the wall. ‘My God,' he realised. ‘I think there's something
inside
.'

The sun was dipping out of sight behind the houses, and the smog was thickening. Eddie stamped his feet and blew
on his hands in an effort to keep warm. Liz had her jacket pulled tight and her arms folded.

‘They won't be long,' she promised Eddie.

‘Course they won't. Probably not much to see.'

‘I wonder what Father did in there,' Liz said. She was staring back at the old house.

‘I think all these houses are empty,' Eddie said, looking back down the street. ‘I've been watching and there's no sign of life at all. Just creepy old Bradby left. Everyone else has probably moved away.' He pointed along the street. ‘Look, there's grass growing between the cobbles. Shows no one ever comes here. Not a living soul.'

‘In which case,' Liz said, ‘I wonder who this can be.'

A dark carriage had turned into the street. Pale, skeletal horses were heading towards Liz and Eddie, gathering speed as the carriage rattled along the cobbles. The driver raised his whip. He wore a dark, hooded cloak that shadowed his face.

‘Like I said,' Eddie told Liz, ‘not a
living
soul. I think it's time to give them that warning.'

The carriage hurtled towards them, not slowing at all as it neared the end of the street.

‘I think it's time to run,' Liz said.

A pale, emaciated arm smashed through the wall and grabbed George by the neck. Plaster dust showered down as a second arm punched through close by.

George yelled in fright and surprise, leaping back and
breaking the grip. He rubbed his sore neck, looking round. Sir William too had backed away from the wall. A forest of arms erupted. White dust fell like snow. Fingers clutching. Then feet kicking through – boots, shoes, even bare toes. Followed by the first head.

Dark eyes glinted in the failing firelight, turning towards George.

‘Is it time already?' a voice croaked, dry and ancient.

A figure forced its way through the surface of the wall and stepped into the cellar. Then another. And another.

George was running for the stairs, Sir William beside him. Halfway up, a hand exploded from the stonework beside them. A head burst out of the next step, and George had to leap over it.

Top of the stairs, and out into the hallway. Wooden floorboards were heaving and rattling as they were forced up from beneath. Chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling.

‘The whole house,' George gasped.

‘It's infested!' Sir William cried. ‘The blood woke them!'

There was a sound like a distant train – a rumbling drumbeat of sound. George covered his ears, struggling across the lurching boards. Hands, arms reaching up at him. Thrusting through the walls. And a black cloud descending in a rush from the ceiling, down the stairs. The sound – the steady, insistent beat of their wings.

Leathery shapes slapped at George as they swirled in a blizzard through the house.

‘Bats,' he realised. ‘Vampire bats. Hundreds of them!'

‘
Thousands
.' Sir William's voice was almost lost in the maelstrom of sound.

George battled towards the front door. How far could it be now? He felt a hand clutch at him, tried to throw it off, and realised it was Sir William.