by G. P. Taylor
‘Take him – if it’s him you are after,’ Bathory answered as he raised his hands, his fingers twitching nervously. ‘My friend will be back soon, went to get something from the car.’
‘He’s taking his time, probably hanging around one of the rooms.’ Walpurgis laughed to himself. ‘I don’t think I will worry about the time.’
‘I have money and an account at the Bank of Perazzi. Take whatever you want,’ Bathory pleaded.
‘Why is he your prisoner?’ Walpurgis asked as he closed the door behind him and with one hand slid the bolt.
‘We were told to take him to Dover and put him on a boat for France,’ Bathory replied.
‘Who by?’ he asked.
‘The Maleficarum – do you know of it?’
Walpurgis smiled, raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. Bathory dropped like an icicle from a gutter. He put away the gun, unscrewing the silencer and slipping it into the pocket of his coat. Without speaking, he took hold of Bathory by his dirty shoes and dragged him from the room.
Jago couldn’t move. The handcuffs on his wrists were chained to the bed.
Soon Walpurgis returned. He looked at Jago as if he was trying to make sure he had the right person.
‘I take it you are Jago Harker?’ he asked.
‘And you are Heston Walpurgis?’ Jago asked.
‘It is so good not to have to introduce myself. Did Hugh Morgan speak of me?’ Walpurgis asked as he took a small key from the pocket of his coat and released the handcuffs. ‘You could save yourself an awful lot of suffering if you were to answer me honestly.’
‘So you are going to kill me?’ Jago asked.
‘As soon as you tell me what I want,’ he answered.
‘I don’t have the diamond. Ezra Morgan is dead and I have no money.’
‘Ezra Morgan promised me one million pounds. Do you know how much that is?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘More than I will ever have,’ Jago answered.
‘Ezra Morgan was one of the richest men in the world. Before the war he bought as many artifacts as he could and hid them all over Europe.’ Walpurgis coughed as if the words burnt his throat. ‘That’s what Vampyres do when they hear of war. Money can lose its value, but gold, silver and great paintings keep their worth. I know the diamond is hidden somewhere.’
‘We don’t have the diamond. The only time I heard of it was when Jack Henson read your letter to us.’
‘So Morgan has read the letter?’ Walpurgis asked as he slumped into the leather armchair by the door.
‘Hugh Morgan is a prisoner. The Maleficarum have locked him away to keep him safe from you. That’s where they were taking me. Some place called Luna Negri.’
‘Luna Negri?’ Walpurgis asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘That is what a woman called Karlstein said,’ he answered.
‘Mina Karlstein?’ Walpurgis asked, his interest aroused. Jago nodded. ‘Then this just gets better with each second.’
‘Is that all you need to know?’ Jago asked, trying to see what was in the mind of the man.
Walpurgis thought for a while. ‘Did they say how they would find Luna Negri?’ he asked.
‘Only that I would be handed over to the French and they would take me,’ he answered.
‘Shame I killed him,’ Walpurgis whispered. ‘Bathory could have been useful.’ He got up from the chair and looked at Jago closely. ‘Why are they so interested in you?’
‘My mother was a brood mare. I was born for a purpose. That’s what Ezra Morgan said. It was because of my blood.’
‘And they want to keep you safe?’
‘Locked away until they can decide what they want to do to me.’
Walpurgis spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘Perhaps you really are worth more to me alive than dead.’
[ 9 ]
The Bank of Perazzi
AN HOUR LATER, Jago was in Room 203. He sat in the leather chair by the window and watched as Walpurgis packed a small bag with two shirts and a pair of trousers. They were precisely placed and then re-arranged several times until he was completely happy with where they were. In all this he never looked at Jago, who eyed the man warily, knowing that he cared nothing about his life and that he was only useful to him. Jago found it hard even to sense what Walpurgis was thinking. He found that this was often the case with people who had spent a lot of time around Vampyres. The constant prying around the edges of their mind made them suspicious and often, without even trying, they began to hide their thoughts.
Walpurgis didn’t speak as he pulled a sword from underneath the mattress of the large bed that dominated the room. He measured it against the length of the bag and then sighed as he threw the blade on the bed.
Jago knew what the blade was for. He had seen them several times before. They were always made of silver and always long enough to penetrate the body from side to side. Vampyres could not be killed by means that would end the life of most humans, but even the most meagre and paltry wound from a silver blade would soon bring sickness and even death. He had seen the look of horror on the face of Ezra Morgan when he had stood before him with the blade given him by Jack Henson. The terror could be felt in the room, such was its power. Now, as Jago stared at the blade, he felt the same. It was a rising panic; he felt as if he were surrounded by venomous snakes. It made every nerve in his body quiver. What made it worse was that he knew Walpurgis would not hesitate to kill him.
‘What do you do?’ Jago asked. ‘Why did you sell the diamond?’
Walpurgis looked up. ‘I am an archeologist of sorts. I specialise in that which is of myth and legend. Artifacts – objects of superstition and the occult. I find them and sell them on.’
‘But why to Vampyres?’
‘They have the most money and ask the least questions. One thing I have found is that they love things of beauty and if they are told the object has power then they find that even more attractive. Beauty and power – what more could they ask for? They keep their money in the Bank of Perazzi on Ludgate Hill. I try to take as much of it as I can.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’ Jago asked when he saw that Walpurgis had finished packing the case.
‘I am going to trade you with someone I know. They in turn can do with you what they like,’ Walpurgis answered as he pulled the price tag off the handle, holding together the two sides of the leather bag and twisting the gold lock. ‘Ozymandias was insistent that I kill you. That makes me think you could be useful. What you have to remember, Jago, is that in life there are always two sides to everything. I want my money from Ezra Morgan, and as he is dead I will take the life of his son …’
‘He isn’t dead,’ Jago interrupted quickly. ‘He is still alive.’
‘What?’ Walpurgis asked flicking back the locks of hair that had drooped across his forehead. ‘Alive? How do you know?’
‘At Hawks Moor there is a painting of four Vampyres. They are called the Vampyre Quartet. When each Vampyre is killed, their faces appear in the painting. Ezra Morgan’s face did not appear. His name is still on the scroll of the Sinan.’
‘You know about the Vampyre compass?’ Walpurgis asked. ‘That is a relic I would love to see. It would make my life so much easier. Vampyres are sometimes the most awkward beasts to catch.’
Jago hoped he could control the expression on his face. He felt in the deep pocket of his leather coat, touching the scroll and the compass.
‘I have only heard of it, but the Maleficarum say his name is still there,’ he answered as he tried to hide his anxiety.
‘That alters the case,’ Walpurgis grunted. He looked in the mirror, adjusted the collar of his white linen shirt and straightened the knot of his tie. ‘If Ezra Morgan isn’t dead –’
‘Then the debt isn’t passed to his son?’ Jago asked.
‘The contract for the Oracle diamond was quite clear. If Ezra Morgan didn’t pay then I could kill his son. That still stands. What makes things difficult is that the Maleficarum have hidden hi
m away.’ Walpurgis paced with his thoughts around the room, his hand jerking in the air as if he conducted a silent orchestra. ‘Now – should I go after Ezra or his son?’
The man stopped suddenly and looked in the full-length mirror that hung against the grey walls by the door. Jago could see he was deep in thought. Walpurgis struggled with the many voices in his head as he wiped his face with the tips of his fingers and traced each lined contour. ‘Something makes me think I am being cheated and Heston Maximillian Walpurgis does not like to be cheated.’
‘What about me?’ Jago asked, wondering if he could escape.
Walpurgis turned as if he suddenly realised there was someone else in the room.
‘I think I have changed my mind. You would only get in the way and I am not sure if keeping you alive would be the best thing,’ he answered. ‘If you wouldn’t mind going and standing in the bathroom?’
Walpurgis rummaged in the pocket of his coat and pulled out the gun. Then quite awkwardly he found the long silencer and screwed it into the tip of the barrel.
‘You’re going to kill me?’ Jago asked as he got to his feet. ‘But I thought I would be useful to you?’
‘Things change, Jago. I can see that you have not been in your current condition for very long. Perhaps it would be best for you to meet your maker before the poison destroys your soul,’ Walpurgis answered coldly. Drops of white spittle stuck to the sides of his mouth.
‘But what have I done to you?’ Jago asked.
‘You are an aberration of nature, Jago. An inconvenience of life, a bacillus on the sidewalk of the world, a scruple in time.’ Walpurgis paused as he checked the gun. ‘You are already dead, Jago Harker. The moment you were bitten the life was taken from you.’
‘But –’ Jago tried to protest as he stepped closer to him.
Walpurgis lowered the gun and spun the chamber as if counting the bullets. ‘Do you remember a woman driving a van? She worked for Ozymandias?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘You took her blood?’
Jago nodded hesitantly as he stepped into the trap. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he replied, his mouth dry, throat gulping.
‘I knew that woman, Jago. When I was in prison during the war I thought of her often. On black, cold days when I thought the sun would never rise, the memory of her was one of the few things that brought me light. You took her blood and now she is dead.’
‘I saw marks on her neck. She had already been blooded. There was a bite. It was fresh. I saw it,’ Jago snapped back as he looked for a way of escape.
‘Step into the bathroom. It will be easier to clean up the mess and I don’t want to get blood on the ceiling.’ Walpurgis flicked the safety catch off the pistol. ‘I always buy silver bullets. Even a flesh wound will ultimately bring about your death.’
‘She was already changing. I could see it. She worked for Ozymandias,’ Jago argued.
‘It will do you no good. My mind is set like flint and will not be changed.’ He answered casually, as if he were inviting Jago for tea. ‘It shouldn’t take long. I am quite used to doing this.’
‘She was a Vampyre. I could taste it in her blood.’
‘Please calm down,’ Walpurgis commanded as if he spoke to petulant child.
‘It’s true,’ he said as he moved closer to the bed, his hand near to the hilt of the sword.
Jago saw the look change on the face of Walpurgis. His eyes widened as if he had never been challenged this way before. He took three deep breaths and shuddered slightly as if he tried to contain the rage that was about to explode within him. He seethed and moaned to himself as if tormented by an argument within. He lifted the pistol and aimed it at Jago.
‘What will be your final words?’ he asked.
Jago grabbed the sword and at the same time knocked the gun to one side. Walpurgis leapt forward, pushing Jago against the wall. With one hand holding the gun, Walpurgis pushed his arm against Jago’s throat. He raised the gun but Jago kicked out as hard as he could and Walpurgis buckled with the blow and stepped back. Before he could aim again, Jago dived towards him. Walpurgis fell back against the door to the bathroom and the sound of splitting wood stopped the fight.
Walpurgis dropped the gun to the floor. He held the sword that had sliced through his leg and pinned him to the door. Holding in a scream, he looked at Jago.
‘It didn’t have to be like this,’ Jago said as he picked up the gun at his feet and pointed it at Walpurgis. ‘We could have helped each other.’
‘Dreams, dreams,’ Walpurgis answered. ‘You will be dead by the morning. Once the Maleficarum find you escaped they will come for you. The bodies of your companions hang in the blood-room of the laundry. When they find them they will think that you killed them and that will be it. I never thought I would be outsmarted by someone so young.’
‘I want to find Hugh Morgan and the diamond,’ Jago answered as he watched Walpurgis struggle to stop the flow of blood.
‘Just get it over with – but not in the head.’ Walpurgis pulled open his shirt. ‘Make it quick and don’t miss.’
‘I am not going to kill you,’ Jago said as he looked at the pool of blood that trickled across the floor. ‘I will leave you here, on one condition – that you don’t come after me.’
‘I don’t know if I could promise such a thing,’ he replied.
‘Then at least, give me a head start. If you have a soul, remember that I allowed you to live,’ Jago said as he could see Walpurgis weaken.
‘If our paths cross I will remember that,’ he answered. ‘If I were you it would not end this way. What you do is a sign of your weakness. They will find it and use it against you, Jago Harker. A Vampyre is a killer born and bred. Remember that as you search for your friend.’
‘I will find him and the diamond and then your debt will be paid.’ Jago took the six bullets from the pistol and stood them neatly on the cabinet. He twisted the rod and released the chamber, sliding the hammer spring.
There was a sharp knock on the door. Jago looked at Walpurgis.
‘It’s Julia, the woman from reception. I arranged to see her,’ he said. ‘She won’t go away, she knows I am here.’
Jago went to the door and opened it slowly. The woman stepped nervously inside.
‘You came to see Walpurgis?’ he asked as they stood in the small lobby of the room. ‘He’s in there.’
‘What have you done to him?’ she asked as her eyes picked out the fine flecks of splattered blood that glowed like red crystals on his leather coat.
‘He’s alive,’ Jago replied. ‘Have you eaten lately?’
The woman smiled her ruby smile; her brow arched, wrinkling the thick white powder that covered her face.
‘That’s the risk they take when they stay here, I suppose,’ she whispered as Jago slipped from the room.
He was soon in the street. The night was dark, the fog thick and brooding. As he walked along Dean Street and then Old Compton Street, he kept looking back. Jago didn’t care what would happen to Heston Walpurgis; he thought the man was mad and dangerous. Sadly, he knew that he had not seen the last of him. Somewhere in his future, Walpurgis would be there, waiting.
*
It felt strange, being back in London. Jago knew the streets well. He had walked them every day of his life before he was evacuated at the beginning of the war to Whitby. Every Saturday he would walk from Brick Lane through the City to the West End. He looked at all the wealthy people as they sat in cafés, eating bowls of ice cream covered in sauce and drinking hot frothy coffee in Italian restaurants. Once he had stood and gawped through the window of Giovanni’s in Wardour Street, staring at a young couple. Eventually the man got up and came outside, clutching the half-eaten bowl of frozen whipped cream. ‘Do you want some?’ he asked. ‘You can’t stop looking at it.’
Jago had taken up his offer and eaten the ice cream. It had tasted of everything that he thought it would and more. He had taken the final spoonful and let it melt
on his tongue before he thanked the man.
As he walked towards Southampton Row, Jago savoured the memory. It was one of the few he could remember. Since Medea had taken his blood, all that had happened before had become vague and meaningless. It was as if he had some strange disease that corrupted all that had been good. Starting with the memories of his childhood, it took away the Christmases and birthdays, the laughter and smell of the freshly cut grass in Belsize Park. Jago had to search hard to think of any good thing before that time and with each day the condition grew worse.
Now he tried hard to picture the face of his mother, the apartment they shared and her things on the mantelpiece. If he had thought of them before Jago would have said they were trivial, fripperies that mattered not. Now, in the cold and loneliness of that London street, they meant everything.
As he walked, he counted his steps. Each pace was a yard further from Walpurgis and the Hotel Julius. He knew he was near the river – the bombed-out factories and stench of sewage told him that. Far away he could hear the sound of boats on the Thames. These were the night boats that took the garbage out to sea. They dumped the old beds, dead cats, waste helpings of potatoes and scraggy ends of bread at Northfleet. The rubbish would often float back on the tide and swirl in the river by the Isle of Dogs. Often it was so thick that seagulls could walk upon it. They would chew and pick at anything they could find until the tides dragged it down into the mud. He smiled; this was another thing from his childhood that he could remember.
At the third hour of the night, he stopped at Temple Church. There was a group of men sleeping on the steps. They looked ragged and tired, careless of his passing by. He waited in the shadows of the trees and looked at the bombed-out offices of Temple Court.
He was hungry. The pain gnawed at his guts and twisted them around. Jago watched a man stagger from the group. He was drunk on Buckie and held the empty bottle proudly in his hand. The man whistled and murmured an old song as he fiddled with the buttons of his trousers and tried to hold himself up against the wall.