by G. P. Taylor
Jago had tried not to answer. In some way she was so unlike her sister – so unlike that he found he couldn’t stop looking at her. Lana could see this and as the carriage rattled through France, she stared back at him, hoping he would speak. She was equally fascinated.
Eventually the train slowed down as it reached the outskirts of Paris. Throughout the journey, a tall companion with a slit moustache had sat opposite them with his face buried in the pages of a French newspaper. When not looking at Lana, Jago had tried to see what the photographs showed. They were mostly of troops returning home and people rebuilding after the devastation of the war. In the bottom corner of the front page was one picture that caught his attention. Lana saw him looking.
‘What is it?’ Jago asked.
Lana reached across and took the paper from the companion. She read the story as Jago looked at the photograph of a dead wolf being held up by two hunters.
‘It says that there were two deaths in a forest. The men lived at an abbey and they were killed by a wolf.’
‘I didn’t know such creatures still existed,’ Jago said as Lana rolled the paper and slipped it onto the seat next to her.
‘In the war there was no one to kill the wolves so their number increased,’ Lana answered.
‘So you read French?’ he asked, trying to make conversation.
‘I am fluent in eleven languages. When you have lived as long as I have you have plenty of time. It helps when you have to move on,’ Lana said, her voice reluctant as if she was remembering where she had been throughout her life.
‘Do you miss your mother?’ Jago asked.
‘Why, out of everything you could have said, did you ask that?’ Lana replied, as if it was the one question she did not want to answer.
‘Mina told me about the doctor and the plague and your mother dying,’ he answered.
‘I miss her very much. She was too far gone to save. Mina was the first and then me. If it had not been for Doctor Salafia, the Black Death would have killed us all.’
‘Are Vampyres safe from disease?’ Jago asked her.
‘The ravages of the body trouble us not,’ Lana said. She ran her finger across the back of his hand. ‘Well, not the bad things.’
The steam engine lurched as it braked suddenly. The companion looked to the door and slipped his hand into his coat pocket.
‘The guard told me there would be problems as we got to Paris. They found an unexploded bomb by the side of the track. The trains have to go slowly in case it explodes,’ he said as he looked at Lana.
‘We are not immune to explosions, Jago. As you well know.’ Lana looked at him even more intensely. ‘Tell me. What was it like to be there that night – when the bomb exploded?’
‘I was frightened,’ Jago answered truthfully. ‘The sky burnt bright white … The air was on fire and then came the screaming.’
‘I lost a good friend that night, Aldus Flood. Did you ever meet him?’
‘He saved my life and then he gave it away again,’ he answered as he thought of Medea.
‘I heard that you were reluctant to become one of us,’ she said as she linked her arm to his and rested back in the couchette.
‘It was not something I had planned,’ he said, enjoying being near to someone again.
Jago felt strange inside. He had forgotten what it was like. Lana smelt of spices and vanilla. She was warm and comfortable, easy to speak to and beautiful.
‘But even things we have not planned can turn out for the good,’ she said. She touched his hand softly, as if she were drawing the letters of a word on his skin. She turned and looked Jago in the face. ‘This isn’t a bad thing that we are doing. Taking you to Luna Negri was the last thing we wanted.’
‘I am being put in prison. It doesn’t seem a good thing to me,’ Jago replied.
‘It isn’t like that. I spent many years there. I killed another Vampyre. We were hunting the same blood and he got in the way. It was just one of those things. The Maleficarum sent me to Luna Negri to think about what I had done. Imagine it to be a monastery and not a prison.’
‘Are they not the same?’ he asked. ‘Don’t both take away your freedom?’
‘Were you free in Scotland? Stuck in a draughty castle for year after year pretending you were sick?’ she asked.
Jago shrugged his shoulders and pulled up the collar of his coat.
‘But I could come and go if I wanted,’ he said.
‘You would have been stopped before you got to the gate. At least at Luna Negri you will be amongst friends.’
‘I have to find Hugh Morgan. Walpurgis has to be stopped,’ Jago said.
‘Perhaps Hugh will not be far away from you,’ she whispered. ‘Sometimes if you stop looking you often find that for which you search.’ Lana smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘I have been told to stay there with you until it is decided. They want me to get to know what you are like. The Maleficarum don’t want to kill you, Jago. They would just like to solve the dilemma of your birth.’
As Lana spoke the train rattled along the track towards Paris. The companion stood by the locked door as the train drew into Gare du Nord. From inside, Jago could hear the shouting on the platform. The steam engine hissed and moaned as it pushed against the iron buffers.
‘Gare du Nord,’ shouted a man on the platform as the door opened.
Jago stepped outside, his arm gripped by the companion. Lana Karlstein held his hand as they walked towards the entrance.
A small, shrew-like fat man scurried towards them. He was dressed from toe to hat in priestly black. The tell-tale white collar fitted tightly around his triple chin. He eyed them through small round spectacles that perched on his long proboscis as if they could be of no use.
‘It is this way – the car is waiting,’ the man said as he clutched a thick black book in his hands. ‘Exciting, exciting – nothing like this has ever happened since … since they chopped off the head of Robespierre.’ The priest turned on his stacked heels and went ahead of them, pushing his way through the crowds to a small door at the far side of the station. ‘If you can keep up with me. There are those who would not take kindly to you being here.’
‘And who would that be?’ Lana asked.
‘I have heard that there are followers of the Cult of the Oracle within the city. Rumours are rife that the Oracle diamond has been found. I heard only the other day –’
Lana Karlstein pushed the priest in the back to bid him be silent.
‘Then you should not speak of it so noisily, little man,’ she said as he led them through the door and out of the station into the busy street.
The companion dragged Jago to the waiting car that was parked on the pavement, its engine running. He glanced at the buildings and saw no sign of the war. It looked so different to London, with its bombed-out buildings. Here, everything looked neat and in order, as if it had been untouched.
The priest got in the front seat of the car. Jago was pushed in the back. He slid across the red leather to the far door. The companion got in next to him as Lana closed the door. As they drove through the streets, Jago looked out of the window. He watched men drinking coffee in street-front bars. Packs of dogs ran down the alleyways, and on the busy pavements people pushed past each other without speaking.
‘Was Paris ever bombed?’ Jago asked, wondering why the city looked so untouched.
‘Just the car factory and some of the areas to the south of the city. Paris is too beautiful to be destroyed, even by the most wicked-hearted people,’ the priest answered without turning around. ‘The Resistance blew up a bridge, but it did no damage.’
Jago slipped back into the seat of the car. He stared blankly at all that passed his eyes. He could soon smell the river. The car pulled up outside a large stone building that looked like a museum. It was emblazoned with lights that shone upwards against the stone and cast shadows from the Corinthian pillars. A man in a top hat, a long red coat and dazzling black shoes strode across a red carpet and op
ened the sedan door. Lana Karlstein got out and looked around as if she was checking to see if they had been followed.
‘It’s fine,’ she muttered to her companion, who slipped from the car and pulled Jago along with him. ‘Welcome to the Crillon Hotel, Jago.’
‘We’re staying here?’ he asked, looking up at what he thought was a palace.
‘Sadly, the George was full and the Ritz is not safe for us. We are only here for the night,’ she said as she walked towards the entrance, followed by the priest. ‘We will be fine,’ she said.
She suddenly realised that the priest was behind her like a little lap dog. ‘There are things that I need to tell you. Things that have changed,’ he muttered as he handed her a cross on a chain with black beads.
Jago did not hear what Lana said in reply. All he could see was that the priest bowed, doffed his stupid hat and walked away still clutching the black book.
Lana Karlstein didn’t check in at the desk. She walked straight to the stairs. They were soon on the third floor. Pulling a key from her jacket she opened a door that looked like an old broom cupboard.
‘This will have to do. The Suite de Napoleon is busy.’
Flicking on the light switch she walked inside.
Jago stared. The room was remarkably similar to Lucca’s at the Bank Perazzi. Even the red velvet couch, the leather chairs and the expensive-looking drapes over the windows were all the same.
‘It’s –’ Jago said.
‘What we have in taste we sometimes lack in originality,’ Lana answered.
Slumping to the sofa, Jago looked around the room. It was oppressively opulent. The walls shone with gold, and everything was outlined in silver. He realised it was even more intricate, even more ornate than the Bank Perazzi.
‘How did you just have the key?’ he asked.
‘We own a room in several hotels and in some cities we own the hotel. It became necessary during the Inquisition. Vampyres were often thought to be witches and we were burnt and tortured. There was once a whole legion of Vampyre knights. They were all put to death on 13 October 1307. The Emperor thought that it would be a good way to get his hands on our money. That has always been the same. People find out about us and our wealth and then want to steal it from us. When the Maleficarum first met, it was decided to provide a place of safety for a Vampyre in every town.’
‘And in every town a companion?’ Jago asked.
‘It is better than working for a living,’ she answered. ‘Good food, good company and more money than most people could ever spend. In many lifetimes it is amazing what can be made.’
‘And now – what will happen now?’ Jago asked. ‘Why are you at war?’
‘Because we are vain,’ she said politely as she unpinned her hat and slipped the coat from her shoulders. ‘There is something about our condition that makes us preen ourselves like beautiful birds and think we are better than anyone else. No different to humans.’
Her companion laughed. In the entire journey, Jago had not been told his name. The man appeared to be surly and arrogant. He bit his fingernails and picked his teeth. Jago could see that his clothes were threadbare. The man smiled at him as he pulled a chair close to the door.
‘The priest spoke about a Cult of the Oracle. Is that to do with the diamond?’ asked Jago as he looked to see if there was another way from the room.
‘It’s not for talking about, not here,’ she answered brusquely. ‘The priest is not one of us. He is another companion.’
‘Didn’t think it would leave much room for what he believed in,’ Jago answered.
‘In all my years I have met many unbelievers who garland their necks with the collar of a priest.’ Lana looked quickly at her watch. ‘There is something I have to do before it is late. I have an appointment.’ She looked at Jago and then to the companion. ‘Look after him and make sure he is still here when I get back.’
Lana Karlstein picked up her coat and left the room. She took the stairs, pressing the button of the elevator on every floor that she walked through. She listened like a child as it stopped on every landing, following her to the lobby.
In the street she turned right and walked across the Place de la Concorde. From the Champs Elysées she crossed the bridge and took the steps from the Quai d’Orsay to the footpath that ran along the river. She waited in the shadows and watched the night boats chug up river. There was no meeting, no appointment. Lana twisted the cross and beads in her pocket and fumbled with her fingers over the rosary. It felt uncomfortable to the touch; each bead snagged in her fingers as if it didn’t want to be handled. She thought of the man who had once tried to stop her by holding a crucifix to her face. She could still see his frightened eyes as she snatched it from him and cursed the old wives’ tales.
She did not have to wait for long. Soon came the sound of anxious footsteps walking the towpath. They came from the direction of Notre Dame. Lana hid in the darkness under the bridge of Pont Royal. She could hardly hold her breath for the excitement that bubbled within her.
‘Going far?’ she asked as she stepped into the light. ‘I am lost, not a native of Paris – a tourist,’ she said in the impeccable French of an aristocrat.
‘Not far,’ the woman answered suspiciously. ‘Where do you want to be?’
‘Notre Dame,’ Lana answered as she smiled.
The woman looked at her. It was as if she had seen her before.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked. A sudden and sharp churning of fear swelled inside her as if her stomach would burst. ‘I know your face.’
‘My name is Lana.’ She said no more. The woman didn’t have time to run or cry out. Lana fell upon her with such force that it knocked the woman to the ground. Her red shoes fell from her feet and rolled into the river, and her skirt ripped as she hit the wall. It was probable that she was dead before Lana bit into her neck. She was already limp, her arms flattened on the cold stones, her head to one side. Lana drank until she heard a car stop on the bridge. Doors slammed and the shadow of a man was cast across the towpath. Taking the rosary from her pocket, she placed it into the woman’s hand, taking time to curl the dead fingers around it. ‘Should be easy to find him from that,’ she said as she slipped off her coat, smoothed the lines of her trousers and walked along the bank of the Seine like a courtesan.
[ 13 ]
Curzon Street
THE ALLEYWAY AT THE BACK of Curzon Street that led from Market Mews was littered with broken slates and smashed wood. Nothing had been cleared away since the end of the war. A bombed wall had fallen across and blocked the alley and Walpurgis found the broken bricks hard to climb. The wound to his leg burnt. His body shuddered in pain, even though Julia had brought a doctor who had given Walpurgis morphine. As he walked, he felt the tight bandage and the wadding that had been pressed against the deep incision and he cursed Jago Harker, vowing to seek his revenge on him.
‘Ruined a good suit,’ Walpurgis said as he climbed the rubble. ‘Got her killed.’
Pulling himself up on the capstone of the wall he looked along the alley. It was dark, empty and foreboding. He waited to see if he could hear anyone. The kitchen door of Crockford’s Casino was open. A man in a small white hat and apron leant against the wall drinking coffee and looking up into the clear night sky. Walpurgis waited. The man threw the dregs of his coffee against the wall and then went inside, the slam of the door echoing in the alleyway.
Beyond the door was the fire escape. It clung to the back of the building like a spider’s web cut from rusted iron. The steps slanted back and forth up the building to the terrace on the roof.
Walpurgis looked up. He knew that this was where Ozymandias was staying. It was where they had first met to do business. This was 30 Curzon Street, with rooms that had been rented on the top floor of the Crockford’s Casino. It had been some years ago when Ozymandias had asked him to search for the Hand of Glory. It was believed that this had the power to keep people asleep when the waxed fingers of the severed han
d were lit. To Walpurgis it was just a superstitious trinket, and when he promptly discovered and sold the artifact to Ozymandias he couldn’t believe how anyone could get so excited over a dried-out hand with tanned leather skin stretched over old bones.
‘If only you knew what it meant to me,’ Ozymandias had said on the evening when Walpurgis had presented the Hand of Glory to him in a wooden box. ‘This is the hand of my dearest companion, Lucinda Grijak. She was hanged for murder in Whitby many years ago. It was a crime she did not commit, for the victim was already dead,’ Ozymandias had insisted.
Walpurgis knew that he was wrong. He had bought the hand from a butcher and blood-seller in Kensal Green only two weeks before. He took it back to his rooms in Corpus Christi College wrapped in a hessian sack and there had transformed the recently dead hand to that of an ancient artifact. This he had done by dry-roasting it in the college oven whilst the cook slept, tanning with alum and then scrubbing with boot polish. Walpurgis had then covered the hand in wax and used it to illuminate his room for the following week. By the time he had sold it to Ozymandias it looked as though it was a thousand years old. What made him even more merry was that Ozymandias was so blinded by his desire for the ancient and mystical that he could not see that the hand was that of a man. A man who was obviously large, brutal and at some time in his life had had a finger bitten off by a dog. This was not the fair hand of Ozymandias’s favourite companion, Lucinda Grijak.
As he stood in the alleyway and looked up, Walpurgis wondered how he would ever climb the fire escape. He had thought of going into the building through the front door, but was unsure of his reception. Walpurgis had the look of a rogue. This had been his handicap since birth. Even though he had lectured at Cambridge he could not escape the demeanour of a ruffian.
Forcing himself onto the iron steps, he made his way up the staircase. On every landing he stopped and looked back. He was sure that blood was seeping from the wound. Finally he stepped onto the veranda. He looked up and counted the stars of Ursa Major. They were bright and even in the city could be seen clearly. His eyes followed the stars that pointed to Polaris.