by Nathan Long
She leapt at the stench, swinging blindly with her sabre, and connected with something that roared. A club or a fist hit her in the face and sent her flying back into a jumble of broken furniture, stars exploding in the darkness behind her open eyes.
She sat up, head ringing, and heard lighter feet dancing away from her – and another scent she recognised. The smell of cloves! The fat little man from the sewers.
‘You!’ she snarled, and lashed out at him with her sabre.
The hidden man laughed and kicked her in the temple, then skipped back out of the way again as she covered up. He can see, she thought.
‘Ulrika!’ came Gabriella’s voice. ‘Are you here?’
‘Aye, mistress,’ Ulrika gasped.
‘Get away!’ Gabriella cried. ‘Go to Hermione! Go–’
A smack like clay hitting stone, and the countess’s voice cut off with a gasp.
Ulrika surged up and leapt towards the source of the stench again, stabbing this time. An invisible foot tripped her and she went down flat on her stomach. She whipped the sabre at the retreating steps and was rewarded by a hiss of pain and an eye-blink dissipation of the blackness before it closed in again.
In that eye-blink she saw the fat little warlock hobbling back, clutching his leg through his all-enveloping robe, and the shadow of something huge and hunched looming on the wall, raising massive, clawed fists over its misshapen head. Then all was dark again.
Ulrika rolled up. There was no time to go after the little man. She spun and swung where she hoped the thing that had cast the shadow was, and chopped into something meaty. Another animal howl, and the whistle and breeze of something moving through the air. This time she ducked, almost in time. Claws raked the top of her head and her ear, but at least she wasn’t knocked across the room again. She stabbed in front of her, and scored a glancing hit, tearing flesh and cloth.
A strike like a hammer knocked her sabre away, and a hand as big and hard as a hay rake caught her by the ribs and lifted her off the ground. She struggled against it, but another hand grabbed her head, crushing it, and trying to twist it off. She could feel her vertebrae grinding. The pain was impossible. She tore at the huge fingers with her claws, shredding flesh and trying to rip them out at the root, but her assailant’s strength was as far beyond hers as hers was beyond a human’s. She could not stop it.
‘Murnau!’ came the fat warlock’s voice. ‘Behind you!’
She heard the dull chunk of a blade stabbing into flesh, and suddenly the thing that held her shrieked in agony and flung her away. She spun through the air and hit something hard and narrow, snapping it, then landed on what felt like a collapsed bed.
Another stabbing thud, and another inhuman scream battered her ears as she tried to stand.
‘I have a claw too,’ came Gabriella’s ragged cry. ‘You see? You see!’
Heavy footsteps thundered away across the floor and there was a tremendous shattering of glass and sudden rush of cold winter wind.
‘Damned coward!’ rasped the little man, then his footsteps retreated towards the hallway door.
Ulrika regained her feet and ran after the warlock’s steps, then tripped on something soft and came down hard on the edge of a table.
‘Stop!’ she cried, and pushed painfully to her feet.
She clutched her aching shoulder and limped after the fading footsteps. It wasn’t until she dodged around a broken table that she realised she could once again see. The unnatural blackness was dissolving. She looked around as she rushed for the door. The room was a shambles. Every stick of furniture was ripped to kindling and the logs from the fire had been scattered across the rug, setting it on fire. The tall windows on the outside wall, which had been so carefully blacked-out and curtained, were smashed and open to the night.
Then she saw Countess Gabriella on her knees beside the toppled wash stand, head down and clutching her arms, her robe shredded and soaked in blood. Ulrika stopped and ran back, the invisible beast and the fat little man forgotten.
‘Mistress!’ she cried, dropping to her knees beside her. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Gabriella weakly. ‘Very much so.’
She sank against Ulrika, her arms falling limp in her lap and a thin dagger slipping to the floor.
Ulrika gasped when she saw her wounds through the rents in the countess’s tattered silk robe. Her breasts and belly had been shredded to the muscle and the bones of her left arm gleamed through four deep ragged gashes. Splinters of glass and wood pierced her legs and face.
‘Please fetch Imma,’ she murmured. ‘I must feed.’
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Ulrika, and stood to look for the girl. She saw her in the midst of the debris, lying on the rug and staring up at the ceiling, her face frozen in an expression of almost comic shock.
‘Imma, get up.’
The maid did not respond.
Ulrika stepped around a broken chair and crossed to her. ‘Imma…’
The girl was not dead, but it wouldn’t be long. Both her arms were broken, bent at impossible angles, and a snapped off table leg jutted up through her belly where she had fallen upon it.
She turned blind eyes towards Ulrika as she stepped to her. ‘M–mistress?’
Ulrika swore, then bent and lifted the girl off the impaling leg and carried her to Gabriella. Blood ran down her wrists from the wound in Imma’s back.
‘She is dying, mistress,’ said Ulrika, lowering her to the floor.
Imma cried out weakly at the movement, then looked at Gabriella. ‘I am sorry, mistress, but it hurts so.’
‘It is I who am sorry,’ said Gabriella. She smoothed the girl’s hair. ‘But I will take away the pain. Do you wish that?’
‘Oh yes, mistress,’ Imma whimpered.
Gabriella motioned to Ulrika to lift Imma into her lap, and then she lowered her fangs to the maid’s lacerated neck and drank. Imma gasped, then sighed and closed her eyes, her face growing calm.
Ulrika watched in amazement as Gabriella’s wounds slowly began to knit at the edges. Even the worst of them, on her left arm, clotted and grew narrower, though they did not fully close.
After a long moment, Gabriella raised her head again and sighed. She looked almost herself again, despite being smeared with blood and dressed in crimsoned rags. She pushed the unconscious maid towards Ulrika.
‘Finish her,’ she said. ‘You are wounded too.’
‘Finish her?’ Ulrika asked uncertainly.
‘Here, it will be a mercy,’ said Gabriella.
‘Aye, mistress.’
Ulrika raised the maid into a close embrace, then bit where Gabriella had bitten. Unwished-for emotion welled up in her as she drank the last dregs of her blood. Imma had said she would die for her. Ulrika had not thought the words would ever be more than a sentimental vow, but now they had come true. Imma’s blood was healing her as it had Gabriella, while the girl’s heart-fire dimmed to a guttering candle flame. At least Ulrika was able to give her a peaceful end in return.
By the time Imma’s heartbeat slowed and stopped altogether, and her blood ceased to flow, Ulrika’s wounds too were healing, and she let the maid slip gently to the floor.
‘The poor child,’ said Gabriella. She laid a hand on Imma’s cold white forehead. ‘Humans are so fragile.’
Ulrika helped the countess to her feet and she crossed to the wash stand, righting it and filling the cracked bowl with water from a pitcher, miraculously whole.
‘Find me another robe,’ Gabriella said as she took off her shredded garment and began to wash her face and body and clean her wounds.
‘Yes, mistress.’ Ulrika crossed to the smashed wardrobe and pulled away the shattered doors.
‘Did I kill the beast?’ Gabriella asked.
‘No, mistress,’ said Ulrika. ‘It fled out the window.’ She found anot
her robe and returned to Gabriella. ‘What was it?’ she asked. ‘Did you see it?’
Gabriella dried and bound her crusted wounds with the old robe and held out her arms for Ulrika to dress her. ‘I did not. Not in the blackness. But it was a vampire of some kind, of that much I am sure.’
Ulrika helped her into the robe and settled it on her shoulders. ‘How do you know this?’
Gabriella turned, wrapping the robe around her nakedness, then crossed to the thin-bladed dagger she had let slip to the floor. She picked it up and showed it to Ulrika. ‘My silvered blade,’ she said. ‘It fled when I stabbed it.’
Ulrika eyed the weapon askance. ‘Mistress, I am thankful that it saved your life, but why would you carry such a thing?’
Gabriella smiled as she found its jewelled sheath among the wreckage. ‘It is a misericorde – a mercy dagger – a quick end if I am caught by men. It is painful, but quicker by far than burning, or being driven into the sun.’ She winced and touched her left arm through the cloth. Blood continued to seep through the dressings and the robe. ‘Had I been wearing it, the fight would have gone very differently. Unfortunately it was in my valise, and I had to hunt for it in the dark. I believe I will wear it from now on – even when sleeping. One never knows when one may be attacked here in Nuln.’
She paused then, the dagger halfway into its sheath, then turned to Ulrika. ‘But how did they know to attack me here?’ she asked. ‘We have been here three nights, and have done little to announce our presence. How many people know we are here?’
‘Hermione and her household,’ said Ulrika, thinking back. ‘Madam Dagmar. Rodrik. They were the only ones present when Hermione ordered us here.’
Gabriella frowned. ‘Well, I hope it was none of them, but they might have talked incautiously to someone who wishes us ill.’
‘Or there might be spies watching Hermione’s house,’ said Ulrika. ‘We might have been followed.’
Gabriella nodded. ‘I like that explanation better. It leaves out treachery–’
There was a thunder of boots on the stairs and Ulrika leapt up, grabbing her sabre and going on guard. Gabriella gripped her dagger.
The door flew open and Rodrik ran in, sword in hand. He stopped dead inside the door and stared around at the wreckage, then looked to Countess Gabriella.
‘Mistress!’ he cried, then shoved through the broken furniture to her. ‘What has happened here?’ He saw the blood on her sleeve. ‘You are hurt!’
‘Fear not,’ said Gabriella. ‘I am much recovered.’
‘But who did this?’ Rodrik asked.
‘It was the killer,’ said Ulrika. ‘It tried to take another victim.’
Rodrik cursed and stood, glaring at Gabriella. ‘This is what comes of making me messenger! I should have been at your side!’
Gabriella smiled at him and caressed his cheek. ‘It is better that you were not, beloved,’ she said. ‘For you would be dead like poor Imma.’
‘But I am your champion!’ he protested. ‘It is my duty to protect you!’ He shot a look at Ulrika. ‘This is not a job for a spy.’
Gabriella took his arm. ‘You may yet have your chance,’ she said. ‘The thing means to kill us all, I think, and its retreat was only temporary.’ She looked up at him again. ‘In the meantime, you may do me another service. If you would kindly bare your neck, I have wounds remaining.’
Rodrik lifted his hand to his collar, then paused, frowning. ‘No, mistress,’ he said, and stepped back. ‘I should not be weakened while you are still in danger. I will fetch Aldrich’s coachman, if he is not dead too.’
Gabriella stiffened, for a moment shocked at being refused, then nodded. ‘You are right. I need you sharp. Go then, but be quick.’
‘Yes, countess.’ He bowed, then started for the corridor.
‘Wait,’ said Gabriella.
Rodrik stopped at the door. ‘Mistress?’
‘What news from Hermione?’
Rodrik paused, pursing his lips, then spoke. ‘Madam Dagmar was murdered while returning from Mathilda’s brothel last night. Torn apart like the others. She was discovered by the watch before dawn, hung from the railing in front of the Silver Lily, just as Alfina was, her fangs extended. The witch hunters are renewing their hunt. Lady Hermione wishes to speak with you about it.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A KNIFE IN THE BACK
It was only a few hours before dawn when Gabriella, Ulrika, Lotte and Rodrik departed for Lady Hermione’s in the guildmaster’s coach, leaving Guildmaster Aldrich’s house blazing like a torch behind them and taking all their belongings with them, strapped to the roof. Gabriella had ordered the burning. Fire hid a multitude of sins – Aldrich’s murder, shattered furniture, broken windows, a dead maid and butler, a missing wife – that it would be best the witch hunters never found.
Ulrika was again dressed like a lady, in bodice, skirts and wig. This was as much necessity as it was deference to Gabriella’s wishes, for her riding clothes had been shredded, bloodied and begrimed over the course of the evening, and were not just inappropriate for visiting, but actually indecent.
As they travelled through the cold, empty Altestadt streets, Ulrika told Gabriella of her adventures earlier that night, of finding the plague house, and the black robe, and how it led her to the Garden of Morr. In all of it she left out any mention of Templar Holmann, for she knew Gabriella would not approve.
When she reached the part about fighting the ghouls in the graveyard, Rodrik growled under his breath. He had continued stiff and distant since learning of the killer’s attack, and this seemed only to add to his anger.
‘You see how well your spy handles things, mistress?’ he said. ‘She flees in the face of danger, and has undoubtedly alerted your enemy that we search for him. He will have moved by now, and all chance of finding him again lost.’
‘I was overwhelmed,’ snapped Ulrika. ‘You would have been dead.’
‘I would not have gone alone,’ Rodrik sneered.
‘Children,’ said Gabriella. ‘Peace. I will not have squabbling. You have both done admirably in difficult circumstances. Now, quiet, if you please. I am still feeling weak.’
Rodrik nodded curtly, and turned to the window, but it was clear his pride was not assuaged. Ulrika shot him a glance of loathing, then she too looked out of the window. They made the rest of the journey in silence.
Silence waited for them at their destination as well. Lady Hermione stood rigid in powder-blue silk and eyed them icily as they entered her drawing room and curtseyed and bowed before her. Around the perimeter, von Zechlin and her other gentlemen lounged in attitudes of studied nonchalance and observed with seemingly sleepy eyes. Famke’s eyes, on the other hand, were wide and darting. She stood beside Frau Otilia a few paces behind her mistress, her fingers twisted together in a white-knuckled knot.
Something was most definitely amiss. Ulrika dropped her hand to her hilt, but of course her sabre wasn’t there. She looked to Gabriella, but if the countess noticed the tension in the air, she did not betray it.
‘Sister,’ said Gabriella. ‘Rodrik has told me the terrible news. I mourn with you.’
‘Liar!’ snarled Hermione.
Gabriella looked up, her brows raised. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Hermione released her rigid posture and stabbed an angry finger at the countess. ‘I know you for what you are now! I know what you’ve done! You helped kill Madam Dagmar!’ She shot a hate-filled glance at Ulrika. ‘You and your Kislevite assassin are in league with Mathilda and her butchers!’
Ulrika blinked in surprise. Was Hermione mad?
Gabriella laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How did you come by this foolish idea?’
Hermione grinned wolfishly. ‘You try to deny it, von Carstein?’
Gabriella pulled up, her cool composure cracking. ‘What? What did you call
me?’
Hermione indicated her housekeeper with a gesture. ‘It was Otilia that reminded me of your true heritage – that you are more of Vashanesh’s blood than of our queen’s.’ She sneered. ‘I thought at first that you meant only to try and take my position, to climb the ladder of the queen’s favour over my corpse, but I know now I was wrong. You have reverted to your true nature. You mean to destroy us all in the name of Sylvania, to kill the Lahmians of Nuln and salt the earth here with such suspicion and fear that our sisterhood will not be able to return. Well, your plot won’t succeed, von Carstein. It will end here.’
‘Hermione,’ said Gabriella. ‘This is lunacy. I long ago proved beyond a doubt where my loyalties lay, and I have proved it again many times. You know this. You were there!’
‘Loyalties can change, sister,’ said Hermione, circling her menacingly. ‘Jealousies can stew when one is stuck in the hinterlands for a century or two. And so you conspired secretly with Mathilda to kill us all, and used this “investigation” to turn our suspicions into blind alleys.’
Gabriella frowned. ‘Are you saying now that Mathilda is a von Carstein too?’
‘She can become a wolf,’ said Hermione. ‘No pure Lahmian has that power!’
Gabriella shook her head, dismayed. ‘You are distraught, sister. I understand that. There have been four deaths. It is enough to frighten anyone, but you must calm down and think clearly. Striking out at me will not–’
‘Don’t try that on me, witch!’ hissed Hermione. ‘I will not fall again for soothing words! You and Mathilda have been against us from the beginning!’
‘But we haven’t!’ cried Gabriella. ‘You have no proof!’
Hermione smiled. ‘Haven’t I? What did you do when we parted ways here after visiting Mathilda’s flea pit?’
‘I went home to Herr Aldrich,’ said Gabriella. ‘I stayed there all evening.’