by G. P. Taylor
Lucca put his hand to his face as if to cover his eyes from what he could see. Walpurgis swept the table with his hand, picking up the gun like a magician picks up a card.
‘What a pity,’ Lucca said solemnly. ‘She was always quite a favourite. We grow fewer every day.’ His mind was occupied by many things at once. ‘You do know that there are five rings for the five pillars of Vampyre wisdom? A ring for each finger and one for the thumb. That is all it says. Each word tells you of which pillar it is – superstition and hogwash, even I don’t believe in all that.’
‘Pillars of wisdom? I have never heard of such a thing,’ Walpurgis said as he pulled the Derringer into his grasp.
‘Breshovit – Shemot – Veyikra – Midvah – Devarim … They teach us the true meaning of what we are supposed to be. They were invented long ago when eternal life proved too much and some of my kind thought they had to have a god. I would rather have had a pillar of gold – in that can I trust. Secret societies and nonsense of new birth and life beyond death leave me cold.’ Lucca laughed as he spoke, his voice cackling like an old witch’s.
‘So you don’t follow the Cult of the Oracle?’ Walpurgis asked. ‘It would seem that the belief grows every day.’
‘Only with those who have nothing else. Fear and isolation bring faith in such things. I may be a Vampyre but I am not a fool,’ he answered.
‘A supernatural creature that does not believe in the supernatural?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘Many years ago I met a man and we spent time together. We ate and talked and walked barefoot by the sea. I trusted him and he promised me a different life. He was a Vampyre and he took my blood. I am not a supernatural creature; I just live longer and need to be refreshed so that I can live. I am just a product of this world, a variation in species that will one day be proved by science. I just hope I live long enough to see that day.’
‘What makes you think that would never come to pass?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘The man behind you with a gun pointed at your head,’ Lucca answered. ‘I pressed the alarm when you broke into the building. Since Jago Harker came here, the Maleficarum has placed me under guard. You have been outwitted, Heston Walpurgis – outwitted …’
Walpurgis slipped the envelope into his pocket as he felt the barrel of a gun press into the nape of his neck.
‘Outwitted indeed,’ he said. He smiled at Lucca. ‘I have to say, I would have killed you. That was my plan when I came here. Yet in the last few minutes I had changed my mind. I saw in you something different, different and nearly human.’
The man holding the gun prodded Walpurgis with the barrel. ‘There is a car outside. Someone wants to see you,’ he said, his voice dark and gruff like a dishevelled bear’s.
‘But what if I don’t want to see them?’ he asked, knowing that he couldn’t run away or grab the gun that was stuck in his neck.
‘Aha.’ Lucca laughed. ‘I see you have not lost your sense of humour, Walpurgis. But I think that it is time for you to go.’ The words ended abruptly as the monkey crawled on to Lucca’s back and hung over his shoulders like a fur cape. The eyes of the creature followed Walpurgis as if it knew what would happen.
There was a sudden and sharp cracking of bone as Walpurgis twisted the arm of the man behind him. Then, as the man dropped to his knees and the gun fell to the floor, Walpurgis kicked him as hard as he could. The body went limp and dangled like a puppet. Walpurgis lowered the man slowly to the floor.
‘As you were saying, Lucca, it is time for me to leave,’ Walpurgis said as he picked the gun from the tiles and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Tell the Maleficarum that I am to be left alone. I work for Ozymandias.’
Lucca nodded nervously as Walpurgis looked about the room – it was as if he were trying to remember every detail for some future time.
‘I trust you will not need to return to see me?’ Lucca asked nervously as the monkey chattered on his back.
‘There may be a time in the future when I need to speak to you again,’ Walpurgis answered. Then he walked to the broken door, pulled the handle and looked into the street. ‘For now I will say goodbye – and remember that I let you live.’
He slammed the door behind him and, taking two paces across the pavement, he pulled on the car door. It opened easily. Walpurgis reached in and grabbed the driver from the front seat and pulled him to the pavement. He hit him twice and dragged him into the shadows of a doorway, where he covered him with a pile of tattered old newspapers so he could not be seen.
The street was empty. There was no other car on the road. In the distance a clock struck the half hour and even further away a steam train rattled through the night. Walpurgis got into the driver’s seat of the car and turned the key.
Looking into the rear-view mirror, he saw two eyes staring at him.
‘You took your time,’ the man said as Walpurgis slowly revved the engine.
‘I thought you were dead,’ he answered.
‘Sometimes it is better to be dead than alive. You can achieve much more,’ the man answered as Walpurgis heard the slither of a metal blade shoot from the end of the walking stick in his hand. ‘In the last six years I have learnt much about this world.’
‘So have I. Every morning I walked around a walled cell. I could see the grey sky above me but nothing else. It gave me time to think,’ Walpurgis said. He wondered if the man was going to stab him with the blade.
‘That was a sad place, but it was necessary. If you had been free during the war I don’t think you would be alive today. You should thank me for putting you in a place where you could come to no harm.’
‘I was in a Gestapo prison. That wasn’t fun,’ Walpurgis said as he reached inside his bag.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ the man said. He put the blade to the back of Walpurgis’s neck. ‘I know that you will either have a knife or a gun or even some strange artifact to which I am allergic – so let me see your hands.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘I think it is time to do a deal, my dear Walpurgis. I need information, information about people, and you are the man to get it for me,’ the man said as he leant forward.
‘I won’t work for the Maleficarum,’ Walpurgis answered.
‘Neither will I. When you found the Oracle diamond for me it was the fulfilment of my life. It is in a very safe place and its purpose will soon be revealed.’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘I will pay you everything I owe you and give you the same again if you kill my son and Jago Harker.’
‘It would seem that is what every Vampyre desires – but why does Ezra Morgan need them both dead?’ Walpurgis turned and looked into the face of Ezra Morgan.
‘It is a long story, my dear Heston. To cut it short, I should say that in both cases I was betrayed. I believe you have the rings that you found at Hawks Moor?’ he asked.
‘How did you know?’ Walpurgis replied as he felt the envelope in his pocket.
‘They are special to me. It is good that you have them and they were left for you to find. Breshovit, Shemot, Veyikra, Midvah, Devarim. They may mean little to you but to the Cult of the Oracle they are everything. Breshovit is the beginning; Shemot is the name; Veyikra is for the calling; Midvah is the desert and Devarim the word. It is only when we have passed through all of these things that we will know the real meaning of the world and the essence of the Oracle.’
‘Why should I need them?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘Because there are people who want to kill you,’ Morgan answered as he sat back in the leather seat and pulled up the fur collar of his coat.
‘There have always been people who want to kill me,’ Walpurgis answered as he felt the cold steel on the side of his neck. ‘What makes this any different?’
‘Ozymandias wants you dead. He is tricking you and you have fallen for him. The woman Arantez – she was going to murder you. That is why I sent the assassin. She had poison. You are a puppet
. Ozymandias wants you dead. It is quite simple.’
Ezra Morgan grunted the words as if he were enjoying each breath. The car filled with smoke from the Havana cigar that he dragged upon. It burnt red and shone bright on his face.
‘He too asked me to kill your son and Jago Harker. Why should he try to trick me?’
‘You are being followed. Everywhere you go he has someone after you. When you find Jago Harker he will be rescued from your grasp and it’s you who will end up dead. He thinks you will lead him to the diamond.’
‘He has had every chance to kill me. Why should I trust you?’ Walpurgis asked as his hand went to the handle of the car door to make ready for his escape.
‘It is for you to decide who to trust. I will happily go inside the bank and get your money – but will it do you any good?’ Morgan asked.
‘At least I would be able to eat,’ Walpurgis answered.
Morgan slipped a gold case from his pocket and unclipped the lid. Walpurgis could see it was a cover for an old chequebook. Taking a pen, Morgan scrawled on the cheque with thick black ink. He pulled it from the book, gripping his cigar between his teeth.
‘I think you will find that is the money to cover the Oracle diamond. It will be accepted by any bank.’ Morgan scribbled another cheque. ‘I will sign this when you have killed Jago Harker and my son.’
‘I need to know why you want them dead,’ Walpurgis said as he took the cheques from Morgan.
‘It was what the diamond inculcated. It has to be obeyed. Your life depends on it.’ Ezra Morgan sighed smoke from his cigar and smiled benignly. ‘In one hour all of the council of the Lodge Maleficarum will be dead. As we speak, I have people ready to kill them. In New York, Paris, Rio de Janero and even London there will be much blood given. How does that make you feel, Heston Walpurgis?’
[ 19 ]
Slattern
‘SHE WOULD HAVE helped us,’ Jago said as he wiped the flecks of blood from the shoulder of his coat.
‘Madame Camargue was a slattern. She worked for the Gestapo throughout the war. Now she was going to sell us to the highest bidder,’ Lana said as she drove the Rolls-Royce around a narrow bend on the road through the mountains.
‘But they will be discovered – three murders and people will know we have been there,’ Jago said as he watched the winged angel on the bonnet of the car glint in the morning light.
‘Two dead Gestapo officers and a traitor? It will go unnoticed and uncared for. She made so much money from them during the war that she was resented. I have never trusted her since she was a child. There was always something about her that made me nervous.’ Lana pulled up by the side of the road that overlooked a narrow mountain pass. ‘There was something that Gisler said that intrigued me. When I searched his jacket I found a key to a hotel room in Cannes.’
‘It’s where he was staying?’ Jago asked, wondering about the significance.
‘It was for Room 213 at the Carlton Hotel.’
‘And?’ he asked, looking out of the side window at the drop to the river below.
‘That room belongs to the Lodge Maleficarum. No one else should have access to it. Gisler must have been working for someone in the Lodge.’
Lana started the engine of the car and drove away, following the road down the side of the mountain. They didn’t speak for the rest of the hour. The old Rolls-Royce was as gentle as a feather bed and Jago slept fitfully, waking every other mile to check Lana was still awake. The sky grew brighter; the covering of cloud broke with the morning sun. He could soon smell the sea.
The car turned on to a long promenade with an avenue of palm trees.
‘Have you been here before?’ Jago asked as he saw the towers of the Carlton Hotel appear before him.
‘In 1910, just after it was opened – or was it 1911? I can’t remember. It is a good place to spend the winter,’ Lana said as she geared down and pulled the car into a small and littered side street.
‘What are you doing?’ Jago asked as she turned again.
‘Getting rid of the car, it is too obvious, even for Cannes. You get out and go back to the corner. I will be with you soon.’
Jago got out of the car and walked back down the road. Lana was soon with him, just as she had said. In her hand was the hotel key.
‘Later I need to see a man who lives here,’ she said.
‘Another companion?’ he asked.
‘An old friend. He is one of us – a Vampyre of great distinction. He was once a famous artist and now mends motor cars.’
‘Can he be trusted?’ he asked, trying to keep pace with her long, quick strides.
‘I don’t know,’ she said as they turned the corner back on to the long promenade. ‘When we go into the hotel, act as if you own the place and remind me to buy you some new clothes.’
Jago looked at his leather coat. It was torn at the shoulder, the cuffs were stained and traces of blood covered each lapel. He could feel the grime of his shirt collar.
Lana took the steps of the hotel two at a time. A man in a long red coat and top hat opened the door. Lana flashed the brass Carlton key fob to him and then looked back at Jago and sighed as if he were a servant. The doorman smiled and doffed his hat, allowing the door to close as soon as Jago had walked through.
Jago followed Lana through the marble lobby with its glittering myriad of crystal lights and up the first flight of stairs. She walked purposefully, knowing where she was going. Turning the landing, she opened the door on a long gold-lined corridor. It had several doorways, each daubed in gilt that stood out against the red carpet. Jago heard her muttering the door numbers as she counted each door.
‘Room 213,’ she said as she slipped the key in the lock. ‘Hope it’s empty.’
The door opened slowly and she stepped in. Jago followed, not knowing what to expect. A large gold-framed bed with silk sheets was by the window. A suitcase was by the bed and papers were strewn on the dressing table.
‘Looks like Gisler was coming back,’ Jago said, as he read a letter on the desk by the window and ran his fingers across the Gestapo imperial seal embossed on the paper.
Lana took it from him and read the first few lines.
‘He was a scientist. The Gestapo knew all about our existence and they were trying to see if there was anything in us that could help them win the war. I heard of some of the things they did.’ Lana looked away as she screwed the paper defiantly in her hand. ‘They thought we were monsters – what a joke …’
She stopped and picked up a discarded photograph from the desk and stared at it. Jago could see her eyes searching every detail. He looked over her shoulder at the sepia image. Gisler was standing by an old fountain, his arms around a man and a woman who looked liked Mina. Behind them stood another man. He was taller, handsome, and his long fingers rested on the shoulder of the woman as if he loved her. In his other arm, cradled as if by a caring father, was a small boy.
‘It has to be a fake,’ he said, unable to even dare think the truth. ‘They couldn’t know him.’
‘It isn’t a fake,’ Lana said as she read the writing on the back of the photograph. ‘This was taken in 1939. It is my sister, Mina, and Ezra Morgan. They knew Gisler, they knew what kind of a man he was. The other man – the other man is …’
‘You think Gisler worked for the Lodge?’ Jago asked.
‘What was the name of the man in Zurich?’ she asked urgently, holding out her hand as if she wanted the card she took from Madame Camargue. Jago searched his pocket and brought out the card. It was dirty and creased, with a smear of blood across the front. He gave it to her. ‘Erik Leonhardt,’ she said as she read the name.
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Jago asked.
‘That is the name often used by my blood-father. He was the doctor who saved Mina and me from the plague. He was a Vampyre. That is the man in the photograph.’
Lana searched the room until it was late afternoon. She took apart the luggage she found in the wardrobe and cut
up Gisler’s wash bag with nail scissors. Even the collars of the neatly folded shirts were ripped open as she searched for any clue or sign that she could find. She didn’t tell Jago what she was looking for, and he wondered if she was just meticulously destroying every trace of Gisler. Eventually she slumped into the leather chair by the bathroom door and put her head in her hands and began to cry. Jago went from the window seat that overlooked the beach and the promenade and put his arms around her.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his heart torn.
‘I thought there would be something other than the photograph. There has to be a connection.’
‘Why should Gisler have the name of the Vampyre who took your blood?’ he asked knowing as soon as he spoke that it would make matters worse.
‘I had to know why,’ she sobbed. ‘We have always been so close. A family beyond time. He went on a trip to America on board a ship called the Titanic. An iceberg struck it and we thought he was dead. All the while he was living in Zurich.’
‘Could it be someone of the same name?’ Jago asked.
‘It is him. I have looked at his face for hundreds of years. He vanished when the boat sank and I never saw him again. But Mina has been with him and there is another child. They have the same eyes. It is his child, his,’ she said, her voice filled with panic. ‘What was he doing, Jago? Why didn’t Mina tell me he was alive?’
Jago picked up the photograph again. He looked at the face of Ezra Morgan. He was smiling at Mina, holding her hand. Gisler looked comfortable in his open-necked shirt and dark glasses. There was a reflection in the glass that looked like someone he knew but he could not be sure. He studied the face of Leonhardt. It was thin, with high cheekbones and a shock of blond hair that spiked above his forehead. In the middle of his chin was a distinct dimple. Even in the sepia of the picture, he understood what she meant by his eyes. They were dark and piercing; the left eye had an iris much larger than the right, as if it had been damaged. The child appeared to have the same features and even though it looked only five or six years old it was obvious that Leonhardt was its father.