Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Your obedient servant

  Sabien Laurent

  And that’s how it was that Finbarr, Gwyn and I came to be sitting in the bar just before eight the following evening. Gwyn floated restlessly backwards and forwards, creating a draft that made me shiver. Her hatred of vampires unnerved me. She was a ghost and one of the best witches I knew. Why would a vampire scare her?

  I watched her uneasily. What could I do? The orb lay on the table, inert and useless. All attempts to contact Wizard Shadowmender had failed. I hadn’t even been able to call Mr Kephisto or Penelope Quigwell because I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile. The inn’s broadband was down—not an unusual occurrence, given the rubbish coverage in my part of East Devon—and even the Bakelite telephone wouldn’t connect to the Paranormal Telephone Company switchboard.

  Something, somewhere, was really wrong.

  I’d insisted that Kat and Marc remained hidden in the attic well out of the way of Sabien. Unsurprisingly, they’d agreed. Kat’s usually beautiful face appeared worn now, and I regretted the amount of upset I had caused her by accepting Sabien’s plea for sanctuary at the inn.

  For now, I could only hope against hope that he would deliver his message and then leave again tonight.

  At eight precisely a noise alerted us from the back hall. He used the external steps from the beer cellar to enter through the back door.

  We turned expectantly as he pushed open the glass door to the bar. He was much as I remembered from his previous visit. Tall at six feet (not as tall as his driver) and with well-coiffed silver hair that had once been dark. He dressed with care; an immaculate Italian suit in soft charcoal wool, an expensive shirt and a silk cravat in maroon. Gold cufflinks, a solid gold watch and a chunky signet ring completed his look. His eyes were inky, bottomless black wells of death you could lose your soul in.

  I had no intention of ever doing that.

  “Ms Daemonne.”

  Yes, I remembered that luscious French accent of his.

  He bowed slightly and reached for my hand. I refused to extend it. Ungracious on my part, but a witch has to have certain standards. I remembered the papery feel of his lips on my knuckles from before and I shuddered in revulsion.

  Without acknowledging the slight, he stood straight and drew his heels together. He dressed like a gentleman and behaved like an officer. “I apologise for calling on you in this manner. Believe me, eet eez as difficult for me as eet eez for you.”

  “If you don’t want to be here, perhaps you should have saved yourself the trip.” My words were as cold as my heart.

  “You ‘ave not heard from Weezard Shadowmender, I take eet?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. How did he know? What did he know?

  When I refrained from answering, he nodded. “That eez what I expected and why I ‘ad to come ‘ere.”

  He looked longingly at the optics behind the bar. “I don’t suppose I could wet my wheestle? Just a leetle?”

  Reluctantly I relented and unbent myself enough to go and pour him a drink. I couldn’t recall what his tipple had been before—the goddess knew we’d gone through far more red wine than was healthy while his nest had been staying at the inn—so I poured him a large glass of Courvoisier.

  He took it from me with a smile of thanks and drank half of it in one gulp. “That eez so good. You should have one too. Help you relax a leetle.”

  “I’m relaxed enough,” I snapped, but he was right. I poured a small snifter for myself and one for Finbarr although I knew my Irish witch friend would have preferred whisky.

  I took a sip of my drink and the brandy slipped down my throat, warming me through. I peered at Sabien over the top of my glass. “Do you want to explain what is going on?”

  “Sláinte.” Finbarr lifted his drink in salute and downed it in one. I pushed the bottle over to him so he could refill his glass. He smiled impishly.

  “Grave news, Alfhild,” Sabien offered without any further hesitation.

  “I’m afraid that you are struggling to communicate with your leaders precisely because that is what the Vampiri want. Zey are choosing to block your communications.”

  “The…? What?” I glanced at Gwynn and back at Sabien.

  “Vampiri. The Romanian arm of the Vampire Nation.”

  “They’ve blocked communication?” Gwyn floated into place alongside me. “How have they done this?”

  Sabien shook his head. “Je ne sais pas. But zey somehow have zis power.”

  “Rubbish,” I said. I’d never heard of Vampiri.

  Sabien gestured at me with his glass. “Not so, Ms Daemonne. These are not creatures to be dismissed lightly, I can assure you. They are powerful, more powerful than you can eemagine. And regretfully, zey ‘ave decided ah… I don’t know ‘ow to say theese… faire la guerre aux sorcières.”

  Gwyn spun on him in shock, her wand levelled at him, and I swear if she’d been a wolf her hackles would have been standing on end.

  “Grandmama?” I asked in alarm. “What did he say?”

  Gwyn glared at Sabien with a hatred that would have made any other creature wither. “This impertinent piece of bat scat thinks to intimidate us,” she spat. “He claims his Vampiri imagine they can wage war on witches.”

  “War?” I recoiled from Sabien in horror. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Deadly.” Sabien’s black eyes stared into the bottom of his brandy glass. I couldn’t interpret his feelings. His passivity made it difficult for me to work out what his angle was on all this. I didn’t even know whether we were safe inside the inn within his presence.

  I shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a meaningful look with Finbarr. My own hand crept towards the pocket where my wand nestled. Gwyn still pointed hers at the vampire, the expression on her face unequivocal. She would happily destroy him with a Curse of Madb or whatever it took if he so much as dared to breathe out of time.

  Finbarr waved his glass at Sabien and effected an incredulous laugh. “How do they intend to achieve this war on witches? To be sure, witches outnumber vampires across the world probably four or five to one.”

  The corners of Sabien’s mouth twitched. “You British witches ‘ave such an inflated sense of self. You think ze rest of ze world owes you a favour. That every witch who walks ze earth will come to your rescue. This eez not the case.”

  “I’m not British; I’m Irish,” Finbarr corrected him. “But I’ll stand with my brothers and sisters here I can assure you.”

  “You are brave mon ami, and possibly very stupid.”

  The lights in the bar flickered. Once, twice. Then they went out altogether.

  My wand was in my hand instantly, even as my breath caught in my throat. I reached out with all my senses searching for a threat. The fingers of energy that rushed from me tripped and tangled with Finbarr’s and Gwyn’s… each of us searching for danger... then freed themselves and moved on, spreading ever outwards.

  Gwyn lit the tip of her wand, illuminating the room.

  At the extremities of what I could see, my ghosts flittered around us. Gradually more light threaded down the hallway as Florence and Zephaniah brought the half-a-dozen lit candles we kept under the sink for emergencies. They set them up around the bar, bathing us in warm light once more.

  In all this time Sabien stood stock still, nursing his brandy. He appeared neither alarmed nor supercilious. He merely watched as events unfolded around him.

  “Why would you choose to warn us?” I asked the obvious question. “Why are you even here? Why not simply attack us and have done with it?”

  He looked at me, but his face remained expressionless. “Because zis whole thing started ‘ere. At Whittle Inn.”

  “When Thaddeus was killed,” I confirmed. I’d been right.

  Sabien nodded.

  “But why war?” Finbarr asked, sounding as confused as I felt. His eyes flicked around the room, scrutinizing the shadows, searching for hidden dangers.

  “Why so extreme,” I
demanded. “A war by all vampires on all witches? Think of the implications! That could break out of our small communities and overspill. It would inevitably end up involving ordinary mortals. It would devastate the world!”

  “That’s what these monsters want.” Gwyn directed her vitriol at Sabien. “That’s what they’ve always wanted; an end to witches. Then they’ll be able to feed where they want and when they want. There’ll be no stopping them.”

  “I must admit zat would be an entertaining proposition,” Sabien said but without humour.

  “You said that not all witches would come to our rescue,” I remembered. “What did you mean by that?”

  Sabien locked eyes with me. “I really cannot tell you.”

  My mind raced. Was he suggesting that there were witches in league with the Vampiri? It wouldn’t be unknown for certain bands of warlocks to join forces with vampires as long as the deal brokered was mutually beneficial.

  The blood ran cold in my veins. There had to be more to this than met the eye.

  I asked again. “Why did you come, Sabien? What is it you want?”

  This time the elegant vampire smiled. He reached out and took the Courvoisier bottle from Finbarr and poured himself another healthy measure.

  “I have been charged with sending you to Castle Iadului.”

  “Castle Yadolooie?”

  “Iadului.”

  “Yadaloy? Where is that?”

  “It’s the seat of the Corinthians.” A voice drifted out of the shadows and I watched as Sabien’s eyes lit up. Marc stepped forwards. “That’s where Thaddeus came from, and where his father still lives.”

  “Bonsoir Marc,” Sabien smiled, unsheathing his teeth.

  “Sabien,” Marc replied pleasantly enough.

  “You want me to go to Transylvania?” I sought clarification.

  “If eet ees not too much trouble.” Sabien nodded.

  Marc shook his head. “You most certainly can’t go, Alf. It would be like walking into a den of vipers.”

  “Well there you have it,” I told Sabien. I didn’t have a burning desire to meet Thaddeus’s father, that was for sure.

  “I’m afraid eet eez completely out of your ‘ands now, Ms Daemonne.” Sabien grinned at me across the top of his glass, the burnished liquid sparkling brilliantly in the candlelight. “You are a diplomatic tool. A chess piece if you will. A pawn.”

  I shifted uneasily. He couldn’t make me go to Transylvania against my will.

  Sabien lifted his glass towards the ceiling, and as if by magick—and as far as I knew Sabien couldn’t perform any kind of magick—the lights came back on, glowing steadily and dispelling the shadows. From upstairs came the sound of the familiar hard ring and thumping vibration of the Bakelite telephone on my desk. In my pocket my mobile began to trill.

  At the same time my orb, until now lying idle on the bar, burst into brilliant life. It sparkled and glowed, rapidly changing colour, a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues, that spun and shimmied as though I were about to receive dozens of different messages from many different people.

  Sabien watched me as I cautiously reached for the orb, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. Somehow the communication block had been lifted. Was it true what he had said then? Could the Vampiri control our communication systems?

  As the clouds parted and Wizard Shadowmender’s concerned face appeared beneath the glass, my stomach sank.

  I was about to find out just how much trouble I was in.

  They sent a sleek black BMW for me. I stared out of the window at the dark horizon and occasional blinking lights as we cruised through the night. Eventually, the car pulled up in an unusually quiet Celestial Street. Many businesses tended to remain open even overnight here, seeking to accommodate those witches who prefer the hours of darkness to go about their business. But in this final hour before dawn, even the night owls had forsaken their need to shop.

  The grand building that housed the Council of Witches might have been mistaken for a town hall by those who didn’t know otherwise. Centuries old, from the front it looked like any other Greco-Roman mausoleum to municipal bureaucracy, but behind the sturdy doors lay the most hallowed chambers known to my kind.

  I’d only been here once before. This is where I’d had to register the death of my mother Yasmin. That seemed like a lifetime ago now, but it had been the event, just eighteen months before, that had set me on my current path.

  I climbed out of the car and immediately found myself surrounded by burly security guards. They swept me away from Sabien and into the massive reception hall with its gilt columns and Renaissance murals. I followed mutely as they led me down a series of marble staircases, our footsteps echoing around the stairwells.

  We moved into a plainer hallway and began to navigate a series of security doors. Each of these had to be opened with a palm print, and the final three required a retinal scan too. Finally at the end of a particularly long corridor, I was shunted through a plain door into a busy office.

  I gazed around with eyes as wide as saucers. I imagined that the control room at NASA looked something like this. But with a different type of personnel perhaps. Here, witches and wizards worked away at desks, staring at computer screens and tapping away at keyboards. Others chatted into headsets. I thought I could hear people speaking in French and German and another in what might have been Chinese or something similar. On the walls were numerous screens with maps of the world, and maps of the galaxy. Across these, little lights were moving around, being monitored. One or two wizards gazed up at one particular screen, frowning as a colleague traced her finger over the outline of something. “That can’t be right,” she was saying.

  “We need to report this,” agreed the other.

  People moved around with a sense of urgency and efficiency. I didn’t quite know where to put myself. While I waited to be told what to do next or where to go, my only relief was that I’d finally been separated from Sabien.

  “Oh hi, Alf.” A familiar soft voice caught my attention and I swivelled to the left in surprise.

  “Ross! Hi!” Ross Baines was a ghost I’d ‘recruited’ on the railway tracks at Canary Wharf. A technical wizard he now worked with Penelope Quigwell. He was one of the sweetest young men I knew; always mild-mannered and unfailingly polite. He was a whizz at what he did, and I had a feeling he had stolen Florence’s heart.

  Not that she would have admitted that of course.

  “What are you doing here?” Ross asked me. “You look a little peaky if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I feel a little peaky,” I said. “I’ve received a summons.”

  “An invitation you couldn’t refuse, eh?” Ross winced in sympathy. “Everything has kicked off here. They’re talking about going to war.”

  I nodded; my misery complete. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh dear.”

  A door at the end of the room opened and Penelope bustled out. Spotting me she waved us over. The security guard gave me a little push.

  “There’s absolutely no need for that,” Ross told him. “Ms Daemonne is a friend of mine, so kindly take it easy, sir!”

  I smiled, grateful for his small expression of kindness. I waved my fingers at him as I headed for where Penelope waited.

  “Come through,” Penelope ordered me. I didn’t expect any consideration from her. She’d always been a cold fish.

  I stepped through the door. A large desk, with several computer screens and keyboards set up on it, dominated the room. Penelope had obviously been beavering away at something. On this side of the desk were several chairs. Wizard Shadowmender and another gentleman were standing, evidently waiting for my arrival.

  “Ah, Alfhild,” Wizard Shadowmender said. “So good of you to join us.” As though I’d had any sort of say in the matter at all. “May I introduce you to Ambassador Rubenscarfe?”

  The gentleman, a wizard I guessed, wore a smart dark navy suit with a pale blue tie in lieu of robes. He had a r
eceding hairline, a neatly clipped beard and moustache, all in pale brown fading to salt and pepper. He had a pair of John Lennon spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and now he regarded me through them with evident curiosity. After a couple of beats, he held out his hand.

  “So this is Alfhild Daemonne,” he said.

  I shook his hand, on automatic pilot. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You’ve been causing trouble, I hear?” The Ambassador quipped.

  I opened my mouth to retort but from the corner of my eye spotted Wizard Shadowmender shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  “Take a seat, Alf,” Wizard Shadowmender directed me. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Might I have a coffee, please? I haven’t managed any sleep.” I tried not to glower, but seriously, I was beginning to lose my marbles.

  “I’ll see to it.” Penelope left the room.

  “Alf,” my elderly wizard friend announced as he took a seat behind the desk. “We’re in a spot of bother.”

  “A spot, you say?” interjected the Ambassador. “The Vampiri are declaring war on us following a diplomatic incident at this young woman’s hostelry. They claim the entire Vampire Nation are behind them. That’s hardly a spot of bother, is it?”

  “A diplomatic incident?” I repeated. “Is that how this is being escalated?”

  “It really doesn’t need much escalation,” the Ambassador retorted. “You’ve seen to that yourself.”

  This was patently unfair, and I had no intention of letting him get away with saying such a thing. “Thaddeus Corinthian was killed at my inn nearly twelve months ago. I didn’t see a great deal of interest from anyone back then. Not the Ministry of Witches nor this Vampiri group, let alone The Vampire Nation.”

  “Unfortunately it appears that his father, Prince Grigor Corinthian of Wallachia, has taken extreme umbrage,” Wizard Shadowmender told me gruffly. “It would appear that he wants to use it as an excuse to hit back at us.”

  “But why now?” I asked. “After all this time?”

  “We’re not sure,” Wizard Shadowmender admitted, “and that’s why we are going to acquiesce to the Prince’s request that you fly out to Transylvania and meet him at Castle Iadului.”