Mr. Abercrombie hesitated. Drogo nudged him. The shopkeeper looked down at the wolf, whose jaws were uncomfortably close to his most vulnerable parts. “Like I told the young lady, he bought a vraja, in addition to some mastic pearls, yarrow, and bloodstone. That’s all I know. I swear.”
The shopkeeper appeared as innocent as a babe newborn. Ravensclaw wasn’t deceived. Things of power rested in this room, amid the cobwebs and clutter.Tell me everything you know of Michael Ross. Now. Do not waste my time.
In the end, Mr. Abercrombie did not know much. Michael Ross had sold the shopkeeper a number of books — an English translation of the Rosarium Philosophorum; Geber’s Discovery of Secrets; An Hundred Aphorisms Containing the Whole Body of Magic, 1321; though Mr. Abercrombie had passed on a tattered copy of The Hermaphrodite Child of the Sun and Moon — and had in turn been most anxious to procure a copy of The Book of Thoth. The Egyptian god Thoth had been credited with the invention of both magic and writing. To possess a copy of his book was to command and control destiny itself.
Were Mr. Abercrombie in possession of the secrets of the universe, he tittered, he would hardly be tending this dusty little shop. He had sent the young man off with The Book of Raziel instead.
So. Michael Ross had sold a number of volumes concerning the manipulation of natural forces and powers to achieve a predetermined end. Sorcery, in a word. The sort of volumes that might have once resided in the Dinwiddie Society’s vaults.
Val had a sense that time was running short. But, since he was here— “What would you recommend as the best way to rid oneself of a ghost?”
Mr. Abercrombie ruminated. Had the gentleman tried stuffing his keyholes full of fennel? Burning powdered bistort? Throwing beans at the apparition? Alternately, one could place three peeled cloves of garlic in a bowl with a handful of sea salt and fresh rosemary leaves, grind and mash them together, and sprinkle the result to create a boundary.
Val doubted anything so mundane would inspire Ana to depart. He put on his spectacles and climbed the stair.
The Book of Raziel had been written by a sympathetic angel and given to Adam to compensate for his exile from Eden. Val was familiar with the tome. For that matter, he also had in his possession The Book of Thoth, although he had no sense of controlling destiny, not even his own. Miss Dinwiddie had seen to that.
Even as he thought of her, Val felt Emily’s presence, some distance away.
She was frightened. Val reached out with his senses and found her, backed into a dark dead-end alleyway by an amorphous blob that sometimes seemed to be a snake and sometimes to have wings. She was holding the pendant out in front of her and chanting. The gem was black as coal.
Jamie and Lady Alberta had been tasked with guarding Miss Dinwiddie. Yet even with the added efforts of Zizi and Bela, Lilian and Isidore, they had apparently been unable to keep her safely within doors.
Chapter Twenty-six
Believe nothing of what you hear,
and only half of what you see.
(Romanian proverb)
Emily was draped about with all her various items of protection. Unfortunately, her assorted charms were proving no more useful in this moment than her sharp-pointed umbrella, or her little gun. Only Marie d’Auvergne’s pendant kept the thing before her from gobbling her down like a tasty snack.
No question that it had been foolish to come out alone. But the note slipped to Emily had demanded secrecy and stealth, and promised her questions would be answered if she complied. Not only foolish, but gullible! She clutched the pendant so tightly that her fingers burned.
The thing, whatever it was — most likely a demon — continually changed shape. In one instant it was snake-like, then winged with cloven hooves; a manlike figure with an unnatural number of fingers and something monstrous about its mouth and teeth; a pillar of smoke; wavering lights. In all its configurations, piercing dark eyes nailed her to the ground. The thing advanced, retreated, circled, writhed.
Emily struggled to free herself from paralysis. She wasn’t so foolish as to wish to do battle with an otherworldly creature; she wanted to run away. At least, that’s what she thought she wanted. Difficult to concentrate her mind when reality was shifting all about. She even thought she heard the howling of a wolf. The monster must have shared her auditory hallucination; it turned away. In that instant, as its attention wavered, Emily saw through the illusion. Her assailant was a winged manlike being of terrible beauty. She had but a brief glimpse before he changed again, into a great scaled fire-breathing dragon with vicious curved talons like those of a bird of prey.
Demons, Emily told herself. To name a demon was to lessen its power. But there were 4,601,200 demons, according to the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Or 7,409,127 commanded by seventy-nine princes, if one preferred the sixteenth-century physician Jean Weir. According to legend, King Solomon of Israel shut up seventy-two rebellious kings into a brass vessel and threw it into a deep lake. In an attempt to locate great treasure, the Babylonians had broken open the vessel, allowing the demons to escape into the world.
Focus, you ninny! “Glasyalabolas,” she muttered. “Raum. Flauros. Seere, Andromalius, Balaam.” Now that the demon’s attention was no longer fixed on her, Emily found that she could move.
A scuffle behind her, the sound of struggle, a snarl and yelp. Emily spun around. Drogo sprawled on the filthy pavement, blood streaming from a deep gash in his flank. She dropped to her knees beside the wolf, pulling at his thick fur as if she could hold the edges of the wound together and staunch the flow of blood. Drogo whined. Emily! came Val’s voice in her mind. Leave this place, at once.
Ravensclaw? Emily raised her head. Her thoughts moved slowly as molasses in wintertime.
This was not Val as she knew him. His face was leaner, harsher, his fangs fully extended; he seemed taller, broader in build. Viciously sharp claws extended from his fingertips. His eyes bled black fire. Go! he said again.
I won’t! Emily took a firmer grip on Drogo’s sodden fur, gasped as the demon slashed at Val and drew blood. Emily was no stranger (though she should have been) to the gentlemanly art of fisticuffs, but in a struggle between vampire and demon, the ordinary rules did not apply. Here was no boxing in Mendoza’s scientific style, no cross-and-jostle work or application of Jack Broughton’s favorite hard right to the abdomen. This was a struggle to the death with talons and fangs. Val caught the demon and flung it against the side of a building with such force that, had the thing hit, the ancient structure might have tumbled down. Instead the demon dissolved into mist, and reformed itself as a huge apelike creature with powerful arms and huge hands and a coat of silver-yellow hair. Val slammed the beast to the ground. It was erect in an instant, and delivered a rib-breaking blow. Val grunted. The demon raked him with its claws, severing tendon and sinew.
Emily’s mind was clearing. This wasn’t going well. “Cimeries, Sytyr, Vassago—” Drogo whined. Emily glanced down at him and glimpsed her reticule, its chain still wrapped around her wrist. The demon knelt on Val’s back with an arm around his neck, prepared to twist.
The literature claimed a vampire would die if its spine was snapped. Emily fumbled her fingers into her reticule, brought out a pinch of salt and flung it. The demon burst into flames.
The ape-thing disappeared. Before Emily stood the beautiful manlike being with his vast wings and red hair. He appeared annoyed. He also looked a trifle singed.
Red hair. A great serpent with twelve wings who flew like a bird. She said, “Samael.”
The demon released Val and turned its eyes on her. Before that terrible gaze could again ensnare her, Emily held up her little mirror and captured its reflection. “Samael, angel of death, prince of the fifth heaven, genii of fire. Samael, accuser, seducer, destroyer. Who interfered with Abraham, wrestled with Jacob, took part in the affair of Tamar—”
The demon unfurled a sooty wing and examined it. “You needn’t belabor the point.”
“Samael, angel of death, princ
e of air, demon who tempted Eve,” Emily continued. “Samael, lord of demons, leader of the angels who married the daughters of men. Tremble, O Demon, enemy of mankind, source of avarice, seducer of man, root of evil, discord and envy—”
“You do me too much credit.” Samael plucked out a singed feather and eyed Emily. “And that should be seducer of womankind.”
She gripped the mirror tighter. “In the name of Yod, Cados, Eloym, Saboath, and Yeshua the Anointed One, I command you to return from whence you came.”
“If you insist.” The demon spread his great wings and disappeared.
Emily exhaled in relief. One could never be certain of the outcome when dealing with a demon of such strength.
Cezar spoke from behind her. “Well done, Miss Dinwiddie. I wouldn’t have expected banishing demons to be one of your skills.”
Emily twisted around to frown at him. “I don’t know why you should be surprised. Papa did teach me things, even if he was reluctant to let me practice them. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” Cezar moved closer. “Our friend doesn’t look well.”
If Val’s spine remained unsnapped, the pavement around his body was dark with his blood. Emily’s hands tightened in Drogo’s fur. “I thought your kind could heal yourselves. And don’t insult me by saying you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I won’t insult you, Miss Dinwiddie. We do have remarkable regenerative powers. However, that was a demon. And we cannot replenish our own blood.”
Val lay unnervingly motionless. Emily experienced a cold chill. “How can you just stand there? Why did you just stand there when you might have helped?”
“It wasn’t my battle. I couldn’t influence the outcome.” Cezar knelt and touched elegant fingers to Drogo’s wound. The wolf whined.
Emily watched. “I thought werewolves—”
“Could heal themselves? It would appear, Miss Dinwiddie, that there is no end to the nonsense you believe.”
Emily sniffed. “If not for my beliefs, you’d still be standing there watching a demon destroy Ravensclaw. And speaking of Val—”
“That was no ordinary demon.” Cezar pressed the edges of Drogo’s wound together. “It couldn’t have been called up by ordinary means. Which returns us to the matter of the d’Auvergne athame.”
Emily fumbled for her spectacles. Was it a trick of the shadows that made her think the wolf’s wound had begun to mend? “Oh, bugger the blasted athame! You’re healing Drogo. Can you heal Val?”
“Drogo is a dumb animal.” The wolf growled. “Apologies, my old friend. Val can heal himself, Miss Dinwiddie, as you have already guessed. But he won’t survive without blood.”
Emily stared at Cezar in growing horror. “Then give him some!”
“Our kind cannot derive sustenance from one another.”
“Then bugger you too!” Emily looked frantically around her for something sharp.
Nothing came to hand. She rose and crossed the pavement to kneel by Val. He opened his eyes. They were merely sapphire now, but his face retained its feral cast.
Gingerly, Emily touched his cheek. Val’s coldness frightened her more than a hundred demons ever could. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
No need. His eyes closed.
It’s my fault you’ve been injured. Let me help you. Drink from me.
I cannot.
He was as stubborn as any mule. Action was required. Gingerly, Emily settled her body atop his, pulled back her hair and bared her throat. I know you would prefer somewhere else — breasts, groin, and the like — but I refuse to disrobe in front of him. She glared at Cezar.
Val hesitated. Emily raised herself to peer down into his face. “Don’t tell me you are shy!”
His pale lips parted. “Are you afraid of nothing?” he said aloud.
“I’m afraid I won’t please you. Val, let me give you the gift of blood.”
Behind them, Cezar said, “Do it, camarad.”
A moment passed. Then Val’s fingers moved to the neckline of Emily’s dress. He tugged the material aside, wrapped one hand in her hair and drew her head back. She felt his lips, his teeth; cried out when his fangs sank into her flesh. The smell of copper flooded the air.
Pleasure rolled over Emily, Val’s pleasure in tasting her, in taking her blood. Her own pleasure, raw and sensual, as she felt her heat and warmth pulse through his veins. And then his hunger was upon her, sweeping like a sweet narcotic through her veins. Open to me, Emily. We feed on emotions as well as blood.
Her body sang with strange sensations. Bright colors danced behind her eyes. Emily knew nothing but a deepening velvet darkness, heard not even the hammering of her own heart.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Of two evils choose the least.
(Romanian proverb)
Val was dreaming. Of Emily.
…
She sprawled on top of him, her small body burning hot. She felt like all he would ever wish to know of heaven, sweet and soft and unbearably innocent. He longed to taste her flesh, to feel her thrum with anticipation; to drop his head to her breast, lick her belly, and the inside of her knees; to tease her with his tongue until she gasped and wept and moaned, and screamed out her satisfaction at the end.
But slowly, slowly. Val would not rush her pleasure, or his own. His hands caressed her as he bit gently at her lower lip, kissed the pulse beating at her temple, breathed her in. She pressed closer, as if she wished to crawl inside his skin. Well, then, he would let her. Val pressed his teeth to the tender junction of neck and jaw—
...
He wakened abruptly, to find himself alone in one of several stone-walled chambers kept for the use of the Brotherhood. Val had never before had need for one of these small rooms. He was unsure why he did now. He moved, and grimaced as he felt the soreness of his ribs. His body healed quickly, but not overnight. The fresh scars on his body would fade in time.
Scars? Broken bones? Val raised his hands to his head. He felt as he had in the old days after celebrating the feast of Dionysus.
Val no longer had use either for liquor, or chewing ivy leaves. The sole thing that could affect him this way was overindulgence in blood.
He touched his tongue to his lips. So vivid had been his dream that the scent of Emily still clung to him. He could taste her in his mouth. Her purity had been intoxicating. No wonder he felt drunk.
Val reached out for her. He should have been able to sense her emotions, her response to the dream; should have been able to feel the aftermath of pleasure curling through her, lazy and sweet. Having once tasted her, he should be able to touch her mind, to know her thoughts, to hear her heart beat.
He felt nothing. She had again closed herself to him. Val swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked unsteadily into the main meeting room. His Stapan was there, addressing a golf ball. Judging from the other balls scattered around the room, his efforts today had not met with much success.
Cezar glanced up at Val. “Our ancestors believed that a corpse found with one eye open and one closed is in the process of transforming into a vampire.”
Val squinted both eyes at the bright light of the candles. “ ‘What does the Romanian like? Fresh bread, old wine, and a young wife.’ ”
Cezar directed his attention to his putter. “Zalmoxis taught that men don’t die, but go to a place where they will live forever and have all good things.” The ball rolled off the shank of his club and bounced into a wall. “Like I do.”
Cezar was in a strange mood, mentioning old Dacian gods. Val noticed a teapot sitting on a table, and poured himself a cup.
Cezar retrieved the golf ball. “Andrei is keeping Lisbet occupied. He may soon supplant you in her affections before long.”
“He may have her with my blessing.” Val needed tea no more than wine, but the beverage’s pleasant taste left him feeling revived.
Cezar moved in that sudden way that vampires have, which was of no use whatsoever to him i
n the game of golf. The ball rolled forward a few inches and came to a stop. “How much do you recall about the events of yesterday?”
Val put down his teacup. “I went to the sorcerer’s shop, which is now in the hands of a man named Abercrombie. I questioned him about Michael Ross. He didn’t know much. Then I realized Emily was in trouble.” He closed his eyes. “Did I really do battle with the Darkness?”
“Miss Dinwiddie sent him home. It was all very polite, other than the fact you lost.”
Val experienced an unpleasant premonition. “Tell me I didn’t drink from her.”
Cezar set aside his putter. “Very well. You didn’t drink from her. You didn’t enjoy drinking from her so much that you refused to stop. You didn’t attempt to break my neck when I tried to stop you. I wasn’t forced to summon Andrei for assistance. Nor did it take both Andrei and I to get you here. Yes, it was all a dream.”
“What have you done with Emily? If you dared switch her memories around—”
“I’ve done nothing. Miss Dinwiddie is your responsibility. I suggest you don’t delay much longer. Not, like I said, that it’s any of my affair.”
No? That was not Val’s impression. It seemed to him that Cezar had a large stake in this ‘affair’. “I’ll ask you once more. What have you done with Emily?”
“And I’ll tell you once more, I’ve done nothing. Come with me. See for yourself.” Cezar led the way down a dim hallway and into another cell.
Val entered the chamber. Emily lay on her back on a narrow cot. Drogo was stretched out beside her. At sight of Val, the wolf lifted his head and growled.
Val moved closer to the bed. Emily was motionless, her tangled hair spread out on the pillow. Her eyes were closed. One hand rested limply atop the blanket. There was dirt beneath her fingernails, dark stains on her gown. Her skin was unnaturally pale.
Unease stole over him. Unnerving, to see Emily so still, so quiet, as if she had no more life force than a stone.
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