The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “A soup of what? Nucleic acids? What sort of acid is that?”

  “Oh, do forgive me. Your science has not yet advanced that far, but you comprehend nonetheless. Sir William Trent is not even his true name. He’s had dozens through the centuries. His plans for the duchess began long ago, before she was born, but revealing these to you, at this point in time, defies the limits of the current visit. Although I doubt you’ll believe it, I care very deeply for you both. You and the duchess. Now, I must leave you, but before I go, allow me to offer something additional. As you suspect, Trent is involved with the east-end crimes, but he is not their sole perpetrator. He shares these rituals with three others.”

  Charles started to respond, but the visitor had vanished. Closing his eyes, the detective began to pray softly. “Lord God Almighty, thank you for protecting me. Please, sir, help me to understand why these things are happening to me and to my family. Strengthen my resolve and calm my fears, I beg you. I have no experience that I may draw upon, and I feel utterly out of my depth! I want only to protect Elizabeth and our child,” he prayed, his eyes shut. A great sense of dread overwhelmed him, and a shudder ran through his soul. “Our child. What will they do to him?” he moaned, tears spilling down his cheeks.

  As this dark foreboding threatened to rob Charles of all hope, he felt a strong hand upon his shoulder. At first, he tensed, assuming Rasha or Anatole had returned, but then a sense of unspeakable, unimaginable calm spread throughout his entire being. He lifted his head and beheld the same man he’d seen near the maze at Branham in October.

  The gardener, who’d told him that he mustn’t continue to sleep.

  “It’s you!” Sinclair exclaimed. “But who are you?”

  “A friend,” he said. “Even before you called, I was dispatched to find you, Charles. One who knows you better than anyone else asks me to remind you of the nail-scarred hands and to tell you this: Trust only in me, Charles. Remember that nothing reaches you that I have not allowed. You are safely cradled within my hand. Though winds may buffet, though the enemy attacks again and again, I am with you always, even when you cannot see me. You abide beneath the shadow of my wings. My truth is your shield and buckler. Fear not the terror by night, nor the arrow that flies by day. The enemy hopes to confuse and frighten you, but their time grows short. These creatures will never truly harm you, for you are mine. Trust only in me.” The man’s face shone with an inner light beyond any artifice, and his radiant smile caused the marquess to weep. “Do you understand, Charles?”

  “I think so,” Sinclair answered, wiping at his eyes. “Am I dreaming?”

  “You are more awake than any other man upon the earth. Your path will soon lead you into dark byways littered with traps and terrors, but you must continue to follow it. The Lord God Almighty has purposed this pathway for his honour and glory. He exalts you for a reason, which will become clear to you only at the end—at the moment of your passing.”

  The carriage turned, and one of the wheels hit a deep rut in the road, jarring Charles from his meditation. Realising that his eyes were still shut, he lifted his head, seeing no one, but outside, the wide Branham gates came into view, and the detective wiped tears from his face. Perhaps, he’d seen a vision, but it was from the Creator of the Universe, the Redeemer of all who call upon His name.

  “Thank you, my Lord, for allowing me to hear your words; for sending your messenger,” he said as the coach passed through the massive stone lions. “You are the Lion of Judah, my King, and I place my faith only in you. And I abide within the shelter of your nail-scarred hands.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ida Ross had never been in such a place as this. After a long and fitful night, she awoke at noon. As promised, a young woman named Katrina Gasparov brought her a breakfast tray and then helped her to bathe and dress. She arranged Ida’s copper-coloured hair into a stylish collection of loose curls at the crown of her head, and then assisted with an assortment of beautiful silk undergarments topped by a very expensive, blue and cream sleeveless dress and matching day jacket, trimmed with a high collar that made Ida feel like a queen.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Ross joined the others for tea in the castle’s drawing room. Contessa di Specchio offered a broad smile as the former prostitute entered the beautifully appointed salon. “Miss Ross, we’d begun to worry that you had, perhaps, decided to slumber the day through! A sleeping beauty, one might say. Oh, that dress is quite becoming, and the fit is perfect. The empire style works well with your slender frame. Anatole’s taste is excellent, is it not? Come, my dear, allow me to introduce you to our other guests.”

  Ross now noticed that the men in the parlour had all stood as she entered; a gentlemanly act completely foreign to her, and the small gesture had a profound effect. She felt important, like a true lady.

  “Thank you,” she replied nervously. “I’m sorry to be so late in getting up. I’m not used to the sounds of the house, I guess, and I had a wakeful night.”

  “Strange surroundings may prove trying to a sensitive soul,” a somewhat bent man said as he stepped towards her. “Do not permit them to disarm you, Miss Ross. We all want you to feel at home here.”

  “This is Count Riga,” the contessa explained. “He has been with us the longest. The count hails from the Carpathians, but his English has improved much, since his arrival. Has it not, my dear Riga?”

  The man’s back was hunched, the spine curved slightly to his left side, and he walked with a strange, limping gait, but his manners and smart attire were impeccable. “It suffices,” he said simply. His eyes were a peculiar shade of yellowish grey and held a deep sadness, which touched Ross’s heart.

  “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, my lord,” she said, reaching out to shake his extended hand. Instead, he lifted her palm to his lips and kissed the soft skin.

  “Delighted,” he told her brightly.

  Ida’s cheeks pinked from embarrassment. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Count Riga. I’m not much when it comes to gentility. I’m afraid I’ve spent my whole life serving others—men, I mean.”

  The count’s eyes grew even more sad. “So I understand, my dear, but that life is behind you now. Prince Anatole provides second chances for all who reside within these walls. If I told you the truth of my troubled past, it would shock you indeed, yet here I am: a respected member of a respectable, though somewhat unusual household. Were we a literary work, we might be called a pastiche.”

  The countess laughed. “Ah, yes! Your new word for the day, I should imagine, Count. Ida, Count Riga is our philanthropist. Is that it?”

  “Philologist,” he corrected. “Philology is a love of words and language. As English is not my native tongue, I endeavour to master its usage through the study of a book I discovered only recently.”

  Di Specchio tapped Riga on the hand. “Yes, yes, philology. My dear, our friend regales us with a new word from this new book every day. What is it called again, Count?”

  “A New English Dictionary on Historical Principles,” he replied in his heavily accented speech. “It is a series of volumes, based upon materials collected by the British Philological Society. I confess that I find their work quite fascinating, though most of the others here think me rather mundane, if not thoroughly tiresome for doing so.”

  “Nonsense, Riga! We find your study of these things most stimulating. We all look forward to being enlightened each day by your research. Miss Ross, the count’s word yesterday was ‘megalomania’. Of course, he referred to this Ripper fiend, and aptly so. Now, my dear, allow me to introduce everyone else.”

  She drew Ida farther into the enormous room. The muralled ceiling soared overhead by forty feet, and every inch within its wide, coffered beams was covered in intricate brushwork that detailed gold-accented imagery that seemed Biblical to her untrained eyes. The walls were covered in red silk, bearing a subtle pattern featuring the Romanov crest,
and many of the furnishings had once adorned the prince’s grand palace in St. Petersburg. The chairs and settees were sumptuous and deep-cushioned with carved arms of rich mahogany and varnished in gold-infused lacquer. The windows were heavily draped in damask prints sewn with gold and red threads, and beyond their sparkling panes, Ida could see that the east gardens ended at a pair of enormous iron gates, now shut fast.

  “The grounds here are quite beautiful,” Riga said. “Beyond those gates, lies the village of Walham Green. And to the east, farther on, is a lovely old cemetery. I like to walk there in the evening. My deformity causes people to mock, you see, and I find comfort in the company of silent sleepers.”

  “Do be careful, Count,” another of the company said. “You may give our newest member the wrong impression.”

  The contessa laughed. “Miss Ross, this is our Mr. Blinkmire,” she said as the man bowed deeply. He was exceedingly tall with a large head and tiny eyes, like that of a pig. As he reached out, Ross noticed six fingers on the hand, but she shook it nonetheless.

  “Charmed,” the giant said politely. “I understand that the prince rescued you from a socially unacceptable occupation, Miss Ross, but you’ve no need for concern. Not one of us is without our sins. Mine is one of an ill-designed birth and unwilling subjugation to additional intrusion into my nature. I do not intentionally obfuscate, but there is a long explanation to it, which is better left for the evening hours, I should think. Perhaps, if you wish, I shall provide it tonight. Despite all, I endeavour to rise above it, with the prince’s medicinals as my therapeutic aid. As I say, Miss Ross, you are amongst friends and fellow sufferers.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blinkmire,” she said, though despite his kind words, Ross felt entirely alone.

  “And here we have Miss Kilmeade, an Irish lady with her own secrets, though she hasn’t revealed them to me,” di Specchio explained, referring to a woman with blazing red hair and eyes of a strange, purplish hue. Her skin was garishly white, and her lips plump.

  “Do no’ let me appearance put ya off, Miss Ross,” the woman said cheerfully in a thick Irish brogue. “It’s no’ catchin’. Jus’, I was born with a sensitivity, ya might say. Ta the Lord’s own light. Prince Anatole’s been workin’ with me, though, an’ it’s a wee bit better. I can e’en go outside for nigh on ten minutes now. Me hair was once white as a lamb, if ya can believe it. Bu’ look at it now. And me eyes used ta be bright red like a rat’s, bu’ they’s slowly turnin’ a loverly shade o’ violet. I’m told tha’ afore too much longer they’ll be blue as a bluebell, an’ I’ll be cured. Wha’ever it is that’s brought ya here, the prince can mend it.”

  “Even a broken heart?” Ross asked, suddenly wishing she’d not said it.

  “Aye. E’en that.”

  “That is everyone in our present company,” the contessa finished. “That is except for Mr. Stanley, of course, whom I understand you encountered in his other form last night.”

  Blinkmire’s piggy eyes squinted rapidly in succession. “Oh dear! Miss Ross, that is most unfortunate!” he worried. “Mr. Stanley is ever so nice when not in that form. He will be mortified when he learns how he behaved!”

  Di Specchio seemed not to care, shrugging. “Yes, I imagine he will. Miss Ross, won’t you join us for tea?”

  Ida sat down beside Blinkmire, opposite Kilmeade and Count Riga. The contessa took her own chair, near the fire. “Anatole has asked us not to wait on him. He plans to be away most of the day and possibly part of the evening. I fear there’s been a most upsetting crime in the east, which draws him from us. I, too, shall spend part of the evening elsewhere, so I shan’t be here for supper. I dine with an old friend,” she added mysteriously.

  “The countess has many, influential and very interesting friends, Miss Ross,” Riga observed as a liveried footman entered and began to pour tea from a beautifully adorned samovar of gold and ivory enamel. “You will notice that the tea served here is somewhat different from what you English normally drink,” the count explained. “It is sweet and strong, in the Russian style. We add orange peel and even lemon with hints of cinnamon and clove. It is deliciously spicy. You will find yourself unable to drink the bland English version once you’ve had this, Miss Ross.”

  Ross took the ornate, gold-edged teacup from the footman. “Do I add anything? Milk or sugar?”

  “Try it first, but wait until it has cooled a little,” Blinkmire suggested. “I have a somewhat peculiar, nervous constitution that allows me to drink even the hottest of liquids, but your lips look quite delicate to me. Oh!” he exclaimed. “I do hope that is not forward of me! I meant no offence.”

  “I took none,” she answered with a smile.

  “That is kind of you. Sergei?” Blinkmire asked the footman. “Are those carriage wheels I hear?”

  The servant turned to look out the heavily curtained windows, and a black coach with gold embellishments upon the doors had just entered the long drive. “As always, your superior hearing outmatches my own, sir. It is Prince Rasha’s coach, if I’m not mistaken. I’m sure His Highness was unaware of the prince’s intent to call, else my lord would be here to greet him.”

  Di Specchio rose, casting a sharp look at the perceptive footman. “I shall deal with Grigor,” she told Sergei. “If you will excuse me, everyone.”

  She left the drawing room and closed the pocket doors to prevent anyone else overhearing. Exiting the house, she emerged onto the large portico and waited for the coach to stop. She waved to the driver.

  “No, no! There is no need for you to jump down, my good man! I must speak to your master, for he will not be leaving the coach.” She opened the carriage door herself and entered, sitting opposite the hybrid prince.

  “What are you doing here? You know that Anatole has barred you from this house,” she chided him.

  “I had Sinclair just where I wanted him, and then that meddling Russian chose to interfere! I shall see him dead for that!”

  “What do you mean? Rasha, have you acted unwisely?”

  “At least, I have acted. My father spends nearly all his time in France of late. Someone must Careful, my dear,” the countess advised. “Time is on your side, but you will never achieve your goals, if you risk your life by baiting Anatole. Remember his office! Only our rituals will weaken his power. Trust in me. Have I ever failed you? Did I not protect you in Milan?”

  “I require no protection. Not from anyone, but especially not a woman!”

  Her dark eyes smoked with anger. “Season your replies with honey rather than vinegar, Razarit Grigor. You have so much to learn. I have lived a very long life, but not without its dangers. Milan nearly proved your downfall, and you know it to be so. Learn from us. Trent and I have succeeded where others failed, because we have acquired patience and cunning. Let us offer you what wisdom we have gained from centuries of life.”

  “Trent be damned! What power does another hybrid have that I lack? He is less than I!”

  “True. Very true,” she said soothingly, “but he has influence in Redwing’s round table—for the present. We use him, my dear. The baronet is an instrument that helps to bring your bride to your side. Consider him your court jester, if you wish. Allow his plans to amuse, but remember that he is merely a hireling whom you may dismiss when that usefulness ends.”

  “And this collection of cattle that my uncle finds so endearing? These misfits? What of them?”

  “They will burn when this house burns, as befits failed experiments, but you must tame your temper. Sinclair is close to discovering our truths. Lie low, if you are able to manage it.”

  “I can manage the lying part,” he said with a wink, “but if that means I may not visit my beloved, then I cannot agree.”

  “Leave the duchess and her cousins to us! Trent and I have lived much longer than you, Razarit. If you dare touch her now, Anatole will kill you.”

  The prince
laughed. “Let him try!”

  “He will do it,” she warned him. “You are too weak yet to stop him. Go now, and do not come here again, or else your visit will be reported. His servants and his guests are fiercely loyal.”

  “Unlike you,” he said, running a gloved hand across her pale cheek. “It is a trait I admire.”

  Serena di Specchio would have blushed, had she been fully mortal, but such biological responses had forever been altered, centuries earlier. “As I admire you, my prince. Now, go. I will see you tonight.”

  She closed the door, and the driver snapped his whip.

  Di Specchio turned back towards the house, fear gripping her heart. She played a very dangerous game. Were Anatole to unmask her subterfuge, she would find herself without a friend in the infernal realm—for traitors inevitably betray one another. She hoped Trent’s perceived power proved true, but even if it did not, she had her hidden ace: the one with the greatest, oldest power, equal to that of Romanov. Prince Raziel; recently escaped from his stone prison, now free to challenge Anatole’s leadership.

  Rasha had charms, but Raziel the Ancient, one of the Seven, had power great enough to break the world.

  Cornelius Baxter dipped an almond-flavoured biscuit into the bone china teacup, a broad smile colouring his ample cheeks. “My lord, this is a delightful surprise,” he said to Sinclair. “Lord Aubrey wired, of course, and forewarned us that you were on your way. Mrs. Alcorn has seen to it that the master apartment is ready, and we’ve laid in all your favourite foods. Mrs. Stephens has been baking for the past two hours, and there’s roast pork with apples for supper.”

  Charles had been relaxing in the Branham kitchen for a quarter of an hour, and he realised he’d not felt this carefree for many days. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Stephens,” he told the plump cook. “You will spoil me, if you’re not careful, and Mr. Kepelheim will have to let out all my new suits.”