by Nathan Long
As she recovered, Ulrika saw that Hermione’s smile had turned into a sneer, and she almost sneered back, but then she caught Gabriella glaring at her, and lowered her head respectfully, letting the long tresses of her wig hide her anger.
‘Your friends are obviously tired from their journey,’ Hermione said smoothly. ‘Let us repair to the drawing room where they can rest comfortably while we talk.’
Gabriella betrayed not the slightest notice of the subtle dig. ‘Of course, sister. After you.’
As they moved to follow their mistresses into the next room, Ulrika caught Famke looking at her. The girl was trying to stifle a grin and, failing miserably, her eyes twinkled with silent merriment. Ulrika wanted to feel indignant that the girl was laughing at her, but she couldn’t. She found she was grinning too, and they went into the drawing room shoulder to shoulder, friends in a single instant.
After lamps were lit and the fire built up, Countess Gabriella and Lady Hermione sat near the carved marble hearth on delicate gilded chairs, while Ulrika and Famke waited in attendance behind them, and Rodrik and Hermione’s gentlemen eyed each other sullenly from opposite ends of the room.
‘Well then,’ said Gabriella. ‘Tell me all. How did it start? And where do we stand now?’
‘We stand well equipped to deal with the difficulty ourselves,’ said Hermione coldly.
Gabriella sighed. ‘Sister, I would not have come had I not been so ordered. I do the bidding of the queen. No more. I promise you I will leave when the business is finished. I have no ambitions here. Now, please. The quicker we begin, the quicker I am away again.’
Hermione stared into the fire for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well. I will tell you. It started a month ago. Lady Rosamund went to the theatre with her lover, a blood-swain named General Steffan von Odintaal, who is one of Countess von Liebwitz’s advisors on military matters and, through Rosamund, one of ours. They parted after the play, he to his club, and she for home.’ Hermione’s hands clasped convulsively. ‘On the way home she was attacked, by what I know not, except that it was strong enough to defeat her and tear her flesh horribly.’
‘There were no witnesses?’ asked Gabriella.
‘None that we could discover,’ said von Zechlin, from the corner of the room.
Gabriella nodded, though her expression made it clear that she doubted Hermione’s champion had looked very hard. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Rosamund was found hung from the Deutz Elm in the Reik Platz a few hours before dawn,’ continued Hermione. ‘Her fangs and claws were extended as if she had died in the midst of blood frenzy. Unfortunately she was taken down before daylight and brought to the cellars of the Iron Tower, so she did not burn in the sun. Her face was recognisable, and she was identified.’
‘What followed?’ asked Gabriella.
‘She was very well known,’ said Hermione. ‘One of the premier ladies of Countess von Liebwitz’s court. There was an immediate scandal. The witch hunters arrested the general, her lover.’
Gabriella looked up. ‘Did he talk?’
Hermione shook her head. ‘We have a friend among the jailors. He died of poison before they put him to the question.’
Gabriella looked relieved. ‘And then?’
‘Panic,’ said Hermione. ‘The broadsheets cried the tale. Everyone at court began to suspect everyone else of being a vampire. Ladies took to carrying mirrors and meeting in daylight. And if that wasn’t bad enough, people started vanishing, all over town – rich, poor, all kinds. Vampires were of course blamed.’
‘And were they to blame?’ asked Gabriella. ‘Were these victims bled?’
‘None have been found,’ said Hermione. ‘Though the witch hunters have searched the town from top to bottom.’ She shuddered. ‘It all became so unbearable that I retired to my country place, Mondthaus, and feigned illness.’
‘Did you inform the queen?’
‘Karlotta did,’ said Hermione. She seemed to Ulrika much less the grand lady now, and more just a frightened woman, though still every inch a beauty. ‘After which, she called a meeting at the Silver Lily, Madam Dagmar’s brothel, so that we remaining sisters could confirm her as our new leader, and to discuss what was to be done.’
Gabriella held up a hand. ‘Who are these remaining sisters?’
Hermione looked annoyed that her tale had been interrupted, but then shrugged. ‘Besides myself, there is Lady Alfina, married to a guildmaster, a blood-swain who is our ear in the Nuln guilds; Madam Dagmar, who runs the Silver Lily, an invaluable tool for gathering rumour and blackmail, and lastly…’ She made a face. ‘Mistress Mathilda, an uncouth hoyden who runs a tavern in the slums south of the river, and gathers information among the unwashed.’
Gabriella nodded. ‘New blood, then. I have met none of them. Pray continue. You were saying that Mistress Karlotta had called a meeting?’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione. ‘It was a grim affair. None of us had any clue as to why Rosamund had been killed, or by whom – or what. Had it been random? Had it been an assassination? Were the disappearances connected? Once we acknowledged her as our new leader, Karlotta instructed us to send our flocks to scour the city for witnesses or information, but…’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘But soon after, Karlotta was dead too. Found staked out on the altar of Shallya in the convent where she posed as the abbess, again with teeth and claws bared, and again horribly torn and maimed.’
Gabriella grimaced, Famke shivered.
‘The panic grew even worse after that,’ Hermione continued dully. ‘The entire convent was arrested, women have been burned by mobs in the street, and the witch hunters began questioning every lady in high society and among the clergy. It has been nerve-wracking.’
‘No doubt,’ said Gabriella.
Hermione hung her head. ‘With Karlotta’s death it became clear that these were not random attacks. Karlotta had been second to Rosamund, and was second to die. Whoever is behind this, knows who our leaders are, and…’
Gabriella finished Hermione’s thought for her. ‘And you are now leader.’
Hermione swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yes – and next on the gallows.’ She rose and began to pace. ‘I returned from my country place to give the situation my full attention, and have ordered our remaining sisters in Nuln to stay in their houses and double their guards, as I have done. They will remain so until the assassin is found. There will be no more murders! I will not disappoint my queen!’
The doors to the hallway creaked open and everyone looked up. Otilia, the housekeeper, stood between them, her face as pale as moonlight. ‘M’lady,’ she said, curtseying. ‘Madam Dagmar is below stairs. She has asked to see you.’
‘What!’ cried Hermione angrily. ‘Did I not tell her to stay in her house? What is she doing here?’
Otilia hesitated, her stoic features working with emotion, then spoke. ‘There has been another murder. Mistress Alfina is dead.’
Lady Hermione and Famke gasped. Gabriella cursed. Von Zechlin and his men jumped to their feet, as did Rodrik.
Hermione rose from her chair, arms trembling. ‘The… the same way?’
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Otilia.
‘Was Alfina discovered?’ Hermione asked. ‘Do the witch hunters know?’
‘I know not, mistress,’ said Otilia. ‘But they do not have her body. It is in the kitchen.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A JOB FOR A SPY
Ulrika followed Gabriella and the others down the stairs to the house’s low-ceilinged subterranean kitchen, and joined them around a wide preparation table at one side of the room. A tablecloth had been spread upon it, and laid across it was the corpse of a woman – Mistress Alfina, Ulrika presumed – in the expensive cloak and dress of a well-to-do merchant’s wife, all terribly torn and bloodied. Hermione gasped when she saw the body. Gabriella remained silent, but clenched her fists
and jaw.
A woman in a gaudy, low-cut, plum-coloured dress huddled at the end of the table, leaning miserably against the wall, her flame-red hair and voluptuous form half-hidden under a long shawl she wore draped over her head. Ulrika surmised that this must be Madam Dagmar, who ran the Lahmian brothel, though she seemed at the moment unable to conjure any of a madam’s traditional bawdy cheer.
‘Mistress,’ she whimpered, holding out trembling hands to Hermione. ‘I… I am sorry for leaving the Lily, but… but…’
‘Never mind that, sister,’ said Hermione, tight-lipped. ‘What happened? Where did you find her?’
Ulrika thought it fairly obvious what had happened. She stared at the corpse of the dead vampire with morbid fascination. That is what I shall look like when I die, she thought. She saw Famke staring uneasily at the corpse as well, and wondered if she was thinking similar thoughts.
The late Mistress Alfina may have once been an attractive woman, but it was difficult to determine that from the broken remains that lay before Ulrika. Her fangs and claws were extended in the way Hermione had described the other corpses being discovered, while her limbs were locked in an attitude of furious attack and her face frozen in a hideous snarl of rage.
But it seemed that neither claws nor fangs nor rage had been enough to protect her. Her well-cut clothes had been torn to shreds, as had the flesh beneath them, and a wooden stake had been driven through her heart – so deeply that it came out her back. None of these things, however, was as fascinating, and at the same time repelling, as the quality of her skin. Alfina must have looked young in life, no more than thirty, but now her skin looked a hundred years old. It was as dry and powdery as a parched riverbed, and had sunk in against her bones as if the meat had withered and shrunk within it. She might have been dead for centuries, which, as Ulrika came to think about it, was most likely true.
Ulrika inhaled deeply as a strange mix of smells came to her from the body. Beneath the usual Lahmian scent of musk and spice and dusty corruption was another, a faint putrid odour rising from the body – foul and earthy, like a battlefield full of corpses after a week in the rain.
‘She…’ began the red-haired woman, then shivered and began again. ‘She was hung up on the iron fence outside the brothel. Hung by the stake.’
Famke winced.
Hermione cursed. ‘Did anyone see her? The witch hunters?’
Madam Dagmar shook her head. ‘I do not think so. My doorman, Groff, found her when he went out to get a carriage for one of our gentlemen. He and the grooms brought her in as quick as they could. But… but who could have done this? Mistress, there are three of us dead now! Three!’
Hermione grabbed Dagmar and shook her. ‘Be quiet, curse you! Answer my questions! No one saw her before Groff brought her in? Are you certain?’
Dagmar pulled away from her and covered her face with her shawl. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know! No one said anything! The witch hunters didn’t come!’
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and Ulrika saw that Gabriella shared it.
‘Then at least we can cover it up,’ said Hermione. ‘Good.’
‘It still leaves us with the question of who did it,’ said Gabriella.
‘A beast,’ said Famke.
‘Aye,’ said Rodrik angrily. ‘A savage beast.’
‘Beasts don’t wield wooden stakes,’ said Ulrika. ‘Or hang women from fences.’
Rodrik glared at her, but Gabriella patted her arm. ‘Very true,’ she said. ‘No, this was not as mindless an attack as it appears. It was clearly meant to kill two birds with one stone.’
Hermione and the others looked at her curiously.
Gabriella held up a finger. ‘One, it was to expose poor Alfina as a vampire, as Rosamund and Karlotta had been exposed before her.’ She raised a second finger. ‘And two, it was to cast suspicions onto Madam Dagmar’s brothel.’
‘They mean to ruin us!’ snarled Hermione.
‘Indeed,’ said Gabriella. ‘Whoever “they” are.’
Otilia coughed politely from the stairs. ‘Pardon, mistresses. If I might suggest?’
Hermione turned to her. ‘Yes, Otilia?’
The housekeeper smoothed her dresses nervously, then spoke. ‘Perhaps a trip to the brothel? Perhaps traces left by the murderer could be found there.’
Gabriella nodded approvingly. ‘Very good, Otilia. You are the smartest of us all.’
The housekeeper looked down to hide a blush at the compliment.
‘My men and I will go,’ said von Zechlin, stepping forwards. ‘And kill the murderer if he still haunts the scene.’
Rodrik snorted at this.
‘I will go as well,’ said Gabriella. ‘And as quickly as possible.’ She motioned to Ulrika and Rodrik and started for the stairs. ‘Come. We will–’
‘No,’ said Hermione, cutting her off. ‘Bertholt will see to it.’
Gabriella turned on her, suppressing a scowl. ‘Sister,’ she said mildly. ‘I was summoned here for this purpose. I must go.’
Hermione lifted her chin. ‘You were summoned here to assist me. And I have other work for you.’
‘Other work?’ asked Gabriella. ‘I am to help with the crisis. Not–’
‘And you will be,’ said Hermione. ‘The husband of Alfina, Guildmaster Aldrich, is a blood-swain, but he does not love the rest of us as he did her. He will make a fuss when he learns Alfina is dead. He might rave in public, or go to the witch hunters. He must be quieted. Go to him and comfort him.’ She smiled primly. ‘In fact, it would be best if you took up residence there instead of here. I still need an ear in the guild halls.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Otilia will give you the address.’
Gabriella stiffened, and seemed about to argue, but then nodded curtly. ‘Very well. I see that this is necessary. I will do it, but I will be your frequent visitor.’ She turned again to the stairs. ‘Come, my dears. There is work to do.’
As Ulrika and Rodrik followed, Ulrika passed Famke, who gave her a sympathetic goodbye glance. Ulrika returned it with a shrug and a wry smile. It was a shame she and the girl seemed to be on opposite sides of a bitter rivalry.
‘Damn the little Estalian bitch!’ hissed Gabriella once she, Ulrika, Rodrik and Lotte were safely in the coach and away. ‘She means to keep me out of everything!’
She slapped the bench in frustration. ‘Would that Hermione had died instead of any of the others. She is the least suited to lead of all of them – so concerned with shining in the queen’s eyes, and making sure that I do not, that she will ruin everything.’
Ulrika had to agree with the assessment. The pretty little snob didn’t seem capable of leading a sing-along, let alone a secret sisterhood, but she was clever enough to get her enemies out of the way. Ulrika looked at the address that the housekeeper, Otilia, had written on the back of a visiting card. Babysitting a guildmaster? There would be no excitement in that.
‘And her pack of boudoir pimps won’t find a thing at this brothel,’ sneered Rodrik from where he sat beside the maid. ‘They’ll be too busy keeping their boots clean.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Let me go, mistress. My wound is near healed. I am fit. If there is something to find, I will find it.’
Gabriella looked at him for a moment, then patted his arm. ‘It is a good thought, Rodrik. Someone must go, but you are not the man for the job.’
Rodrik looked affronted. ‘Why not? I am your champion. Who better?’
‘That you are my champion is the difficulty,’ said Gabriella. ‘Hermione’s gentlemen may see you and know that I disobey their mistress’s orders. I need not a knight, but a spy. Someone they do not know.’
Ulrika’s heart leapt with sudden hope. ‘Mistress,’ she said.
Gabriella turned to her. ‘Yes, child?’
Ulrika reached up and pulled off her dark-haired wig, revealing her thatch of sho
rt straw-coloured hair. ‘They know your long-haired protégée, but they do not know me.’
Gabriella’s eyes widened and a smile cracked her lips, but then it faded. ‘No, I cannot,’ she said. ‘You are still not ready. Faced with danger, you may make a bigger mess than the killer.’
‘Mistress, I promise you–’ Ulrika pleaded.
‘You have promised before,’ said Rodrik. ‘And still finished soaked in blood.’
Gabriella shot him a hard glance. ‘She is mine to chastise, sir, not yours.’
Rodrik bowed his head sulkily. ‘Aye, mistress.’
Ulrika glared at the knight, but did not retort. She didn’t want to ruin her chances by making Gabriella angrier.
The countess sat in silence for a long moment, staring out the window into the night. Finally she sighed. ‘But I must know. There’s nothing for it.’ She turned to Ulrika. ‘Very well, you shall go.’
Rodrik grunted.
Ulrika suppressed a grin of excitement. ‘Thank you, mistress. You will not regret this!’
‘Quiet, girl,’ snapped Gabriella. ‘You shall go, but you will follow my rules to the letter, do you understand me? You will keep yourself hidden at all times. You will not fight. Not anyone. Not even the killer, should you find him, unless you are in danger for your life. You will not feed. You will speak to no one unless it is absolutely unavoidable, and when you have seen what there is to be seen, you will return to me immediately. This is not an invitation to explore Nuln, nor to play at hero. Am I clear?’
Ulrika nodded respectfully. ‘Yes, mistress. Very clear. I will not disappoint you.’
‘I trust you will not,’ said Gabriella, then her face fell. ‘But wait. This may not work after all. You cannot do this in dresses, and you would drown in Rodrik’s clothes. What am I to send you out in?’
Ulrika smiled. ‘Not to worry, mistress. I packed my old things.’