by G. P. Taylor
‘I was taking him to Luna Negri – just as you asked,’ Lana shouted back.
‘This train is going the wrong way for the Black Cave and you bought tickets for Zurich,’ Mina shouted as she rattled the handle of the door and banged on the glass.
‘Jago, we have to get away from them,’ Lana insisted, holding out her hand to him as the carriage lights burnt brighter.
‘Lana! Lana!’ Mina Karlstein screamed, her face pressed against the frosted glass.
‘It has to stop, Mina, it has to stop …’ Lana answered as Jago ran towards her.
‘Open the door, sister,’ Mina growled, her teeth bared as she stepped back from the glass.
There was a sudden crash and the glass from the door exploded towards them. The old man from the platform burst through the door headfirst and slumped over two rows of embroidered leather seats. His throat had been torn open. Death had come quickly, as there was only a slight issue of blood.
‘Run, Jago!’ Lana shouted as Mina gripped the inside handle and twisted the lock.
‘Don’t you dare run from me,’ Mina screamed at her sister. She kicked the door open and gave chase, smashing the chandeliers dangling from the roof with her clenched fist.
As they ran through the carriage, Jago locked the door behind him, though he knew it would not keep Mina Karlstein back for long.
‘Is she alone?’ he asked.
‘No – I could hear Medea calling my name. She has been with my sister for many years.’
‘How do we stop them?’ Jago asked. He slammed yet another door as they ran through the dining car and into the guard’s van.
‘You won’t – she loves to kill, far more than any Vampyre I have ever known. And when they are together they are like dogs.’
Jago locked the door behind them. On the floor by the window was a large stain of blood. It had been crudely mopped but the red tarnish was still visible.
‘We can go no further,’ Jago said. He began to build a barricade against the door with cumbersome wooden boxes of Menton lemons.
‘Mina will kill us. We have to get from the train.’
No sooner had she spoken than the engine pulling the carriages from the tunnel began rapidly to gain speed, as if it were running out of control. Without warning there came the first of three sudden thuds against the compartment door.
‘Lana – let me in. I have to speak to you.’ Mina Karlstein spoke in a snickering voice that sounded as if she was drunk.
‘You are dead. I heard that Walpurgis killed you. He has boasted of it across Europe,’ Lana shouted as she stepped back away from the door.
‘He only thinks I am dead. The fool watched me fall to the sea at Hawks Moor but I swam away – swam away, dear sister.’ Mina laughed. ‘How are you going to swim away from this?’ she asked.
‘How did you find us?’ Lana asked.
‘We asked Renoir, the artist in Cannes. He didn’t resist, but he will never paint again,’ Mina answered slowly. ‘Then we found the woman in the dumpster. We had heard that Walpurgis was coming to Nice and we were waiting for him when Medea saw you get on the train. Then we followed and waited for the tunnel.’
‘Walpurgis is here?’ Jago shouted.
‘He has come for you. Yet his own fate awaits him. Are you frightened, Jago Harker?’
‘Of you or Walpurgis?’ Jago asked as he piled more boxes against the door.
‘It is a trick. She is keeping us talking – Medea is near, I can feel her,’ Lana whispered.
‘However did you guess, Lana? I can hear what you are saying – do you forget that we are the same creature?’
‘Then if you are the same you will let her live,’ Jago shouted as the train rattled.
‘I don’t love her that much. I always wanted a brother,’ Mina answered as Jago slowly opened the door and looked outside as the engine slowed for a corner. ‘Don’t think of jumping – not at this speed.’
‘We will take our chances, Mina. This has to end.’
‘Don’t let her kill me,’ Lana pleaded.
Jago grabbed Lana and before she could resist he pushed her from the train. The door burst open and Mina Karlstein stood with Medea amongst the scattered boxes. He looked back and then leapt to the door. Medea grabbed him by the leg and with all of her strength pulled him back. He hung half out of the train as the ground sped beneath him. Jago looked back to see if Lana had survived the fall. He could see nothing but the mist rising from the ditch that hugged the track.
[ 22 ]
Renoir
IN THE STREET behind the Café Poet, Heston Walpurgis drank five more drops of the linctus that numbed the pain of the wound to his leg. He looked at the tall green door next to the garage and counted the flakes of paint that clung to the wood like dead spiders. Putting the small bottle back in his pocket, he reached out and turned the handle of the door and stepped inside.
Walpurgis could smell blood. It was fresh and somewhere close by. He turned in the small passageway to the door on his right and pushed hard. It gave way easily. Flicking the switch, he went into the garage. A white Porsche was covered with a cotton throw that let just the fender be seen. He could tell from the shape what it was – no one but Porsche made cars like that.
‘Renoir!’ he shouted out hoping the man was somewhere near.
‘Here …’ came the voice in reply. It was the weak and frail voice of a man who was about to die.
Walpurgis felt the handle of the pistol in his pocket. He clicked back the hammer as he walked slowly around the parked cars to where the voice had come from. Turning the corner, he could see the long workbench covered in tools all neatly placed.
‘Renoir …’ he whispered.
It was then that he saw the pool of blood on the floor by the wall. Looking up and following the drops of blood, he saw Renoir. The crucified man hung from the wall just below the ceiling. His hands were nailed to the wooden beam that supported the floor above.
‘You have come to kill me?’ Renoir gasped.
Walpurgis didn’t answer. He got hold of a long ladder and gathered a rope, wrench and engine winch from the workbench. In ten minutes Renoir was lying on the sofa in the tidy back office of the garage. Walpurgis boiled hot water on the stove and tore towels into strips.
‘So who did this to you?’ he asked as he cleaned and bandaged the wounds.
‘Why should you want to know – haven’t you come here to kill me?’ Renoir asked. ‘You are Heston Walpurgis. I was told you were coming.’
‘Who should want to talk about me?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘My banker in London. He said that you visited him. All that is ever talked about is Heston Walpurgis and Jago Harker. Both of you are English and both of you will bring our downfall.’
‘Did Harker do this to you?’ Walpurgis asked as he finished wrapping the wounds.
‘I’m surprised you don’t already know. She mentioned your name. Told me that if I ever met you I was to say she would enjoy killing you,’ Renoir replied. He laughed with a shallow breath.
‘Was Harker with her?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘Mina Karlstein was with Medea. They did this to me – they wanted information. It was a warning to anyone who thought that they could go against them.’
‘Did you tell them what they wanted to know?’
‘Everything. It was either that or they would cut off my head. Mina wanted to know where Harker and her sister were staying.’
‘Where was that?’ Walpurgis asked calmly as he tried to smile at the Vampyre.
‘They were at the Carlton Hotel. I had them followed and then they went to Nice. My companion was not as lucky as I. Medea left him in the incinerator. He didn’t deserve what she did to him.’
Walpurgis thought for a moment, his eyes looking over the old calendars that hung on the wall. By the desk was a set of keys hanging from a brass hook.
‘Is it right that you Vampyres like to keep the key to every house you ever lived in?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘You are not to be fooled, Heston. We keep the keys so that we can go back at night and take blood from those who live there now – that has always been a myth,’ Renoir gasped. ‘There is no truth in that at all. They are just a keepsake, a memory of what once was.’
‘And the Maleficarum, is that now a memory?’
‘It has all gone and is no more. There has been a revolution. Power always destroys itself in the end. We had become arrogant and thought we would rule the world. Now things have changed. You are an epitaph to that – you and Jago Harker.’
‘Well, he won’t be around for much longer,’ Walpurgis replied as he got to his feet.
‘Ozymandias and Ezra Morgan have both asked you to kill him?’ Renoir asked as he tried to sit up.
‘You know that?’
‘Have you not realised that it is you they seek to do away with? Can’t you see that this is a glorious game that they are playing with you? My banker told me that they had even wagered vast amounts of money to see who would be the one to outwit you. When you have all eternity to live it is amazing what people will do to fill their time.’
‘So are you saying this is all a game?’ Walpurgis asked.
‘A game in which you are a pawn,’ Renoir replied as he slumped back in the sofa. ‘They will kill Jago Harker – but they will also kill you. What you don’t understand, Heston, is that a Vampyre likes drama. Murder is an art. It is not just for the taking of blood. It has to be done with style, planned to the last moment. You are just a puppet.’ Renoir sighed. ‘You may think that you are searching out the next victim, but in truth they are leading a path to their door. It is all a trap … Beware, Heston Walpurgis.’
Renoir closed his eyes and said no more. Walpurgis thought of what to do and fought the urge to take the gun from his pocket and shoot him there and then.
‘So I am already a dead man?’ he asked as he walked from the room.
‘As good as, my companion,’ Renoir muttered under his breath.
Walpurgis stood at the door and looked around the garage. He felt a sudden pang of sadness, as if he lamented all that Renoir had lost. ‘You were once a famous man and gave up everything for this?’
‘Happiness is far more important than the notoriety of success,’ he answered. ‘Besides, the motor car will be the art of the future. I am happy with what I do.’
Walpurgis didn’t look back. He walked to the incinerator and looked inside. It was just as Renoir had said.
The door creaked shut. Renoir shouted: ‘It shall all end at the Cave of Solitude – Magdalene will show you the way – the way of the true blood.’
Walpurgis locked the garage door behind him and slipped the key through the letterbox. He walked down the street to the Café Poet and sat outside as the sky grew brighter. The streets of Cannes were still empty. The long-haired girl behind the counter took his order and soon brought him bread and hot chocolate. Nearby he could hear the sounds of the open market and the churning of car engines as the town awoke. He looked out across the promenade to the distant islands in the bay. The sky was layered with every shade of blue, rising up from a white horizon.
On the wall by the harbour a man was waiting. His face was covered by a newspaper held with gloved hands. Walpurgis sipped at his drink and wiped the chocolate from his lips. He looked towards the old town. Another man, dressed just like the first, was standing inside the silver phone booth by the bus station. He held the receiver to his ear but didn’t speak. The man looked towards Walpurgis and smiled.
Slipping a ten-franc note from his pocket and onto the table, Walpurgis walked away. As he looked back he saw the man on the promenade throw down his paper and walk towards him. At the same time the door of the phone booth opened. Both men were now coming towards him, their hands in the pockets of their short leather coats.
‘Companions,’ Walpurgis whispered to himself as he walked beyond the Hotel de Ville and turned into the narrow alley that led to the old town.
Looking back, he saw the men breathing hard, trying to gain on him. Walpurgis began to run, the pain in his leg becoming even more intense as he climbed into the old town with its narrow streets and high houses. As he reached the walls of the castle the men still followed at a distance, knowing he would soon be out of breath.
There was an open door to a small garden. Walpurgis went in and sat on the step of the house and waited; his hand in his pocket gripped the pistol, which was already fitted with the long silencer.
‘Ran out of courage?’ one of the companions asked as he pushed up the brim of his hat and looked at Walpurgis. ‘I heard you were wounded and would be easy to catch – all a matter of time.’
‘Who sent you?’ he asked.
‘All we know is that we have to take you to a place not far away from here,’ the second man said as he too stepped into the garden, pushing back the branches of a fig tree.
‘And you expect me to come with you?’ Walpurgis asked, his finger on the trigger. ‘I at least expect to know where I am going and who invited me.’
‘It’s not far. She said we were to bring you there unharmed. Please don’t make us hurt you,’ the smaller man said in perfect English.
‘Mina Karlstein?’ Walpurgis asked as he eyed the men warily and waited until they were standing next to each other.
The older man smiled. Walpurgis could see his dirty and broken teeth.
‘You would be wise to take the gun from your pocket and place it on the ground,’ he said as he aimed his own gun at Walpurgis. ‘Yet I know that you will come with us. Mina said that you would not be able to resist.’
‘And what if I don’t want to go?’
‘Then we will be forced to kill you here and now.’
‘You’ll wake the people sleeping above us and they will see you,’ he answered.
The man aimed the gun at his head.
‘Okay, I’ll come with you – there is no need to shoot.’
Walpurgis slowly drew the gun from his pocket and lowered it to the ground. Then suddenly he stumbled, rolled forward and, before the men could get out of the way, he fired the gun. The bullet shot the first man in the leg. He fell to the floor. The second man looked startled as his friend screamed in pain. He pushed against the gate, stumbling over his colleague as he tried to get out of the way.
Walpurgis took aim again. He fired, the bullet smashing into the wall and breaking a branch of the fig tree. The first man rolled on the floor screaming, trying to reach his own gun that lay just out of reach. In the house above, a woman came to the window and banged against the glass. Walpurgis pulled up the collar of his coat and kicked the gun out of the way as he gave chase.
The second man ran down the street towards the entrance of the castle. He was too far away to shoot. Running as fast as he could, Walpurgis cut through a side alley and along the top of a low wall that stretched out like a snake’s back. The man ran on, looking over his shoulder every few yards. Then, when he thought Walpurgis was out of sight, he hid under an old portico of the castle wall.
‘Got you,’ Walpurgis whispered as he stepped from the shadows and put his arm around the man’s throat and the gun to his head. ‘Explain how you found me and where Mina Karlstein wants to take me.’
‘We don’t know the place – never been there before – we just have the co-ordinates. It is in the mountains – I have it marked on a map.’
The man tried to reach into his pockets. Walpurgis had heard enough. He hit out, and the man fell to the floor. Taking the jacket from his back, he left the man in the dark recess of the portico.
He searched the pocket as he walked down the empty streets to the harbour. Finding the small folded map, he looked at the range of mountains to the north-west of a large coastal town. His bloodied finger followed the route from Cannes marked in black ink. Marked against the side of a steep cliff was a small ink cross, and next to it was inscribed the word MAGDALENE.
Taking off his coat, he emptied his pockets and slipped on the leathe
r jacket. It fitted well, even though the man was smaller than him. When he got to the harbour, Walpurgis put his coat in a dustbin, making sure it could not be seen. He looked across the harbour as a steamboat sailed in and he counted the money in his wallet. ‘Train from Toulon – car from there. Should be at the cave by nightfall,’ he said to himself as he walked along the harbourside towards the centre of the town.
Walpurgis didn’t see the long black sedan driving slowly along the promenade. Watching his every step, the driver pulled in to the side of the road and waited. Still trying to read the map, Walpurgis stepped from the pavement to cross the street. The black sedan leapt from its parking place and veered towards him. He could do nothing as the car struck his side.
Walpurgis rolled across the bonnet of the car and onto the road. The door of the car opened. A tall man got out and, lifting him with incredible strength, dragged him into the back of the car.
‘They always say that if you want a job doing then it is best to do it oneself,’ Ozymandias said as he leant forward and slapped Walpurgis across the face. ‘I see from the jacket that you are wearing that the companions are no more.’
‘Ozymandias … But how –?’ he asked.
‘You had become too much of a threat to us. When Ezra and I decided to put an end to the Lodge Maleficarum once and for all, you became expendable.’
‘So why did you have to track me down?’
‘What is left of our community are all coming to this place. It would have been too conspicuous to have you kidnapped and brought here so we had to think of a plan to get you to come to France. Ezra and I knew you would obey. The bait was Jago Harker, but we had him all the time. We could have done away with him at a moment’s notice.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘That is the problem,’ Ozymandias answered as the car sped off through the empty streets. ‘It would appear from recent correspondence that Mina Karlstein and the woman she is with have decided to hold him for ransom.’